March Morning Poem by David Nelson Bradsher

A spring song lingers, dawn-performed
by robins (in quartet) ,
in bluster-lanes that, last night, stormed
and left the new grass wet.

The birds’ concerto whistles through
the morning, warbling sound
to pleach the skies of Newman blue
above the drying ground.

When March removes the stinging cold
for just this atmosphere
where winter’s thawing wings unfold
and shred, the spring is near;

and with the swirling shift-and-swerve
of March’s tempest-wind
we lie, entwined, and we observe
what starts at season’s end.