March is a painting of silver and gray.
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
Will something move the stone or this time
will death win?
We teeter on the fulcrum while
light plays on the beams.