The month of March, reputed to arrive
A roaring lion and depart a lamb,
Instead, it was a whale about to dive
That made to crush us like a battering ram.
And then the whale dissolved into a flock
Of black and orange monarch butterflies,
Which then solidified into a hawk,
Whose hunting call was lost in windy skies.
The transformations last less than a day,
Some guises linger barely for an hour-
One can’t but marvel at the grand display
And range of nature’s metamorphic power.
To call it a menagerie is fair,
As March is madness, I am splitting hares.