I want to dress like the pines
of spring. Tousled, tangled
garlands of gold twining my head.
Glistening greenery sleeving my arms
ending in fingertips of powdery coated gilt.
Then dance March’s tango. Leaning
into my partner, the wind. Bending with ease to
his urging, only to pull back as he changes
ardent caresses from this side to that.
I shall whirl. Whipping my head back
north and flinging brassy Jessamine trumpets
south to land on piles of needles. Until
I arrive at April. When I shall return—
sedate to normal life.