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rejectomorphMarch now borrows days from May, lulling winter with a soporific buzzing of bees who have come to sip the nectar of early flowers. The honey they make could be no more golden than this sunlight, no sweeter than this soft, warm air. Arriving before their time, the afternoon breezes find no young leaves to flutter, but must be content to sing through the pines. The sprawled hours drowse, sated with green dreams.
The nights are more like April. Cobalt sky lingers as the stars emerge, and the breeze grows brisk and cool. Spurge laurel scents the invigorated air, the frogs croak, and all the wind's rustling sounds bring the woodland to life, as though the animals had all ventured forth for some festival of spring. I let them romp through my imagination as I lie on the grass, free of the bulky garments of winter, gazing at the wheeling stars.
The nights are more like April. Cobalt sky lingers as the stars emerge, and the breeze grows brisk and cool. Spurge laurel scents the invigorated air, the frogs croak, and all the wind's rustling sounds bring the woodland to life, as though the animals had all ventured forth for some festival of spring. I let them romp through my imagination as I lie on the grass, free of the bulky garments of winter, gazing at the wheeling stars.
