The Winds of March

Brrrr! Back to winter we go after a couple beautiful days. This morning it was 39, cloudy, with the temperature dropping an even some flurries blowing around. Ah, March! She is a fickle month.

Thinking about March, here are some poems and thoughts about this fickle month, with a few photos from past Marches interspersed. This first one certainly captures the spirit of this month's weather.

March: An Ode by Algernon Swinburne (1837-1909)

Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell,
       and the splendor of winter had passed out of sight,
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger
       than dreams that fulfill us in sleep with delight;
The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops
       and branches that glittered and swayed
Such wonders and glories of blossom like snow
       or of frost that outlightens all flowers till it fade
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land,
       nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night,
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring:
       such mirth had the madness and might in thee made,
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms
        that enkindle the season they smite.

Emily Dickinson's March must have been a milder-mannered beast than the one we've had so far this year.

TO MARCH by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat —
You must have walked —
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the birds’;
The maples never knew
That you were coming, — I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me —
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.

Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.

And this by Wordsworth describes so well how the past few days felt.

TO MY SISTER (excerpt) by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

IT is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

Ah yes, "there is a blessing in the air." This is just how the soft air felt yesterday. But today, William Cullen Bryant seems to have hit it spot on.

MARCH (excerpt) by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

The stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies,
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.

I am happy with these changes of weather as this will hopefully delay the blooming of the fruit trees for a while longer. The pear and the peach trees get so anxious to burst out, so that often these trees never have fruit because the blossoms get frozen. But the photo below is from a post I wrote on March 6, 2015, five years ago. The temperature was -16f!

So here we go through this wild, tempestuous, teasing month! We shall see what she gives us this year.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.