March weaves a melancholy effect on me that produced the poem I wrote yesterday. Spring hides around it. The snow tires the eyes in the beginning of the month. Sometimes, the heat will rise to abnormally highs, plunging the next day to a blizzard. March can't be controlled. It defies prediction.
March changes. Change disorients. Change does not stabilize. Even when I lived at home I found myself most homesick in this month. My freshman year of nursing school, I hungered for bright blue skies of California of my trip the year before. I wanted to curl up in my dad's lap. I want a physical touch of family. As the atmosphere shifts, I search for solid ground.
As I grow older, the old saying of time travels so much faster than when you are young seems true. March will hardly begin and then it will be over. I reminded myself yesterday as I stared at the bleak snow and black branches against a gray sky that in a month, just a month, the trees will sprout a green mist in the little tiny leaves and buds. Soon color will return. Days zoom past, but minutes edge forever.
March lingers. March gets under my skin. Sunny days, but still cold, and longer evenings, but bitter wind, I must endure. I have no choice. Warmer days tease. They come too soon and briefly. White skin exposed to remind us not too long ago, snow covered the ground.
Another March I drudge through. Thankfully, I know this too shall pass. March put away homesickness. March welcome the longer sunlight. March push us outside in the warmer breezes. March don't play hide and seek. March don't play with my emotions.