March is a painting of silver and gray.
Water everywhere.

Anything might happen:  snow or sun,
daffodils or ice.

The Queen of March lifts the balance and rattles
the pebbles in her pocket.

We ought to leave honey-cakes for her
at this crossroad

so she will leave us in peace while
we wonder:

Will something move the stone or this time
will death win?

We teeter on the fulcrum while
light plays on the beams.

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