Lambs and Lions

March is known to impart to us quite a capricious collection of days.  We fall asleep at  midnight never quite knowing what sort of music nature will play with the dawn.  Will we awake gently to the delicate tune of soft breezes -  faintly green madrigals that drift in like angel song, gingerly nudging the oak trees from the dark woody depths of their wintertime sleep?  Will the day be a calm one, long hours drifting by at a leisurely pace, each one a shy herald of the sweet season to come?  Will our rooms be filled with a pale eastern light - a light that aspires to once again sparkle and shimmer with warmth?   Will we notice a delicate touch of the sun on our faces and begin to remember the feeling of Spring?

Or will the morning air shudder as an operatic March wind blows down through the trees like a trident, sending ice blue crescendos whipping past our closed windows, intent on reminding us winter is still on his throne?  Will we burrow down deeper inside our cozy shelters, reluctant to venture outside?  Will the songbirds keep silent in the magnolia tree, hiding their heads neath their wings, not daring to offend such a wind with their choir rehearsals of Spring.  Will we put the kettle on and resign ourselves to the cold?

Perhaps the March wind sometimes roars like a lion because he knows that his time is so short.  For true, soon he will leave us to embark on an annual journey far off to other side of the world, breathing mistrals and tempests over other continents, other landscapes.  While here, our days will lengthen like white tulips, a tiny bit more each circle round, until there is nothing before us but bouquets of warm hours that glisten like sea glass under a friendly gold sun. The roar of winter shall trail off into memory.

 I shall let the the old lion roar and enjoy the days he has left.  I shall bury my face in his fur and remember the wildness of winter with joy.  I shall relish the gusts of the wind in my hair as I bid him a bittersweet farewell.

And I shall welcome the days of the bright youthful season as they tip-toe in quietly on an innocent breeze.  I shall take off my shoes and stroll along with each one, lost in my wonderings of all the fresh joys this pristine new Springtime has planned.

This is the only March we shall have this whole year. 

 Be they lambs or lions, let us all enjoy every one of its days!