At winter's edge, where shadows flee,  
The end of March stirs restlessly.  
A quiet hush of seasons blurred,  
As spring awakes but not assured.  

The crocus lifts its purple head,  
Through icy ground where frost still treads.  
The skies, a patchwork—gray and blue,  
Where winds forget their course, and strew.  

The rains arrive in whispered veil,  
A silver mist, a fleeting tale.  
The earth, half-thawed, begins to sigh,  
Beneath a fickle, restless sky.  

Bare branches hum in softened breeze,  
Their silhouettes on trembling seas  
Of sunlight caught and scattered thin,  
Where warmth and chill wage war within.  

March, a poet—rough, untamed,  
Half wild with change, yet still unnamed.  
It lingers long, a stubborn guest,  
Then yields to April's promised rest.  

And though it bites with lingering cold,  
Its heart is green, its roots are bold.  
It leaves behind a whispered song,  
Of things reborn where dreams belong.