I hear my name on the wild wind
It calls for me to come and play
Snow and ice melt away before my feet
I wrap the hope of warmer days around my shoulders

I seek out the life emerging in my midst
Pink to announce the return of the peonies
Red for the coming blush of a rose
They beckon in their colorful displays

But March is a fickle month
More so than the god for which it is named
This month refuses to set its mind to what it will bring each day
Cold nights and snowy landscapes are still to be had

When I run with the pups we do not tarry in the shade
For the fingers of March leave a chill against my cheeks 
I stand in the sun with my arms raised and I listen to the wind's melody
And reach for spring as I sing a song for March.

I often wonder why the browns of March are so distinct from the browns of January. Just like the acrylic paints I buy, expensive pigments create rich, deep tones. This must be what is happening in March–Mother Nature is using a higher quality paint to color her world. Or perhaps its the new life swelling under the soil and at the tips of the tree branches. Or the golden afternoon sunlight as it reflects off the river and a Wood duck’s crest.

No matter the reason, I go on record that the colors of March are more intense, more mesmerizing, more hopeful than the colors of January.

March is the time of year when I eagerly await the postman, or postwoman. My mailbox is often stuffed with seed and flower catalogues. I imagine my excitement at receiving the newest Bluestone Perennials catalogue is akin to someone from the 1920’s getting her Sears catalogue.

Regardless of whether I plan on buying a new plant, I absorb every detail in the catalogue. Each description brings to mind the coming warm summer days that I’ll lazily spend sipping lemonade while basking in the glory of my gardens.

Or hot summer days where I’ll toil away in the punishing humidity trying to keep my plants from dying due to the drought.

It’s all good; March is a time for dreaming.

Bailey has grown like the weeds that threaten to take over my gardens. She is now eight months old and I call her my little chocolate muffin. Oh how I wish I could nibble her nose.

She loves to annoy the cats, prancing after them, her tail almost wagging her rear end off. She’ll make a sportive dash at Sam who dashes away but Oreo always stands with a ready paw. After a while the three of them are best friends. As for Harlee, he sits and watches. At ten years of age, he has no desire to chase anything that isn’t edible.

One of the downsides of March is the mud the dogs track into the house. I try to be firm at holding them in the doorway to have their paws wiped but they are so happy to have spent time bounding through the yard, I hate to spoil their fun. Plus they smell of fresh air and the warming sunshine. So, I let them run across the room to the water dish and I follow behind with a wet rag for the floor.

Two Bald eagles have been terrorizing my ducks. It’s nesting time for eagles and the eaglets have hatched and need to be fed. What better for a young eagle to eat than a fat Mallard?

Listen closely and you’ll hear the Mallard hen quacking for help.

March is a wonderful month to host a party. With the coming of the Spring Equinox and the lengthening of the days (but, oh how I despise DST), it’s great to have one’s home filled with the warmth of friends and family, the scents of a crackling fire in the hearth, and a roast in the oven.

I loved planning gatherings but, sadly, my life has changed in that it’s just me, the dogs and cats, and the ducks. And my son, thank Goddess. I am open to invitations, though (hint, hint).

May March carry joy to you and yours.

Blessed be :}

Mi manchi, mia amata immortale.