March Ahead
by Paulette Demers Turco

The wind in the willows is raw.
The sun is unable to draw
slippery ice from the paths I might tread.
I’m a hungry young mole, who instead,
should be snoring, curled up till spring’s thaw

on warm grasses that dried as soft straw
in the tunnel I dug, paw by paw.
But I so miss my friend. Though I dread
the wind in the willows

frosting my snout, my clenched jaw,
I’m dreaming of spring. Murphy’s Law
will not force me to fear gusts ahead–
my friend Rat understands what’s unsaid.
We’ll sip tea, think of boat rides, in awe
of the wind in the willows.



 

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