March, you’re very fickle, is all I’m saying:
You give us summer for a day or two,
Then pull it back, like you’re a kitten, playing,
And send a hailstorm, just to prove it’s you.
You tempt the fruit trees into budding early;
You’ve tempted me to leave my coat at home –
Then send a night that’s clear, and bright, and starry,
And brings a frost that chills me to the bone.
The birds are looking out for nesting hot-spots
They think it’s spring, and they should settle down:
You send a wind that threatens all the tree-tops,
Rattles the twigs and shakes the branches round.
March, like a toddler tantrumming, you’re cruel:
Mad hares, mad winds, mad me, because of you.
This is my first, slightly wobbly, sonnet. I promised myself I wouldn’t stress too much about what went up for NaPoWriMo, so I’m just going to press “publish” and not worry about it.