Yesterday was the first day of spring in my hemisphere

Snow and ice are melting in the marsh. Signs of new growth are absent still. The cattails are ravaged and lovely in tatters. The alder catkins hang like fringe for new drapes.

I have no fond or distinctive memories of March from childhood. March is the only one of a dozen months, with no pleasurable anchor. If months have moods, and I believe they do, March is a mood I call bleh. I easily summon positive associations to every other month. April is fresh, May is hope, June is fun, July is thrilling, August is salty, September is audacious, October is nostalgic, November is grateful, December is delicious, January is snowflakes, February is Valentines.

Poor March. It's officially spring, still more like winter. March is a month in need of a makeover.