Friday, March 27, 2015

March Rains

I enter slow the bitter bog.
I perch upon a fallen log,
survey the gloom and forest fog,
while tall trees drip and mosses sog.

I wrap my cape against the chill
and grumble, as we humans will,
resisting this late-winter chill.
I plod on, while resisting still.

Where is the spring, the sun, I ask.
Has winter not fulfilled its task?
My muse has donned its sleeping mask.
It needs some warmth in which to bask.

I turn homeward, with a will,
or else I would be walking still,
searching vainly, as one will,
for spring is only promised, still. 

The March rains  have kept our skies grey all month and my Muse has curled up like a gestating hog and refuses to send me even a glimmer of an idea. Sigh. So I decided some humor might jog a thought or two loose. March rains do not a-Muse me, LOL. But they sure beat snow, which my son and daughter-in-law still have, in Regina.


  1. I suppose you didn't invite the March Hare for a tea party, did you :)

  2. I cannot help but smile at your catchy rhymes!:))

    Crete, a continent away, keeps you company, with three straight days of rain!


  3. If your muse is asleep, mine's in a coma. This poem is super cute. It's amazing what you write, when you "have no ideas".

  4. Well, I don't see that your muse has donned its sleeping mask. Smiles. It seems pretty active to me.

  5. We have the most depressing rain and heavy clouds so I definitely sympathize with you

  6. meanwhile, we bake unendingly. can we trade for while? ~


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