March has crept in like a lamb.
No lion here. No crunching bones.
No drooling jaws. No fierce storms.
Just fishtails in trees flicking sun
onto bareback winds, twisted flat
across the billows of night, warped
into acres of stars, armloads of bloom.
I don't believe the postman when he says
he saw the lion, greasy with spume,
crouched beneath the underpass
eating lemon grass and honey bees.
Then I hear that tree, a spreading oak,
its branches snapping, rising on winds,
great limbs twisting like dandelion seeds
reinvented as bullets shot with unholy speed
into clouds wound as tight as springs.