March Mad

Crazy, I know...
as if months
take heed of dates
I look to where the sun
perennially sets

lays down
its billion bullion booty –
a golden pathway on the lake;

pray for radiant skies
to lift me from this mood I’m in.
No such luck.

Take this evening;
they’re steel...
grey on grey.

At the top
of the hill I wait
for hares – madder
still, this month
or so they should be
but none show

just some squirrels
retrieving long
buried nuts from the lawn.

On a branch, overhangs
my window
a waxwing,
tremulous, sings
perches...
and pauses
my yearning.