Blossoming in her mother’s arms,
Newborn March giggles and wriggles there,
Delighted to perform, while her kin cheer.
Her lively gestures inspire them to fling hands
Over hearts — bracing those close to swooning,
As over Ma’s arms she calls red tulips up.
Forever, we, like loving turtledoves, purr;
Inhaling as she inhales, the magnolia’s aroma
And but a fraction of her tantalizing oeuvre.
March, her most purposeful steps still pending,
Makes even baby steps awe-inspiring.
Ask the snowmen in their liquid binding, who witness
From their picketed white yards, her smouldering debut.
They’re sweating their noseless, peeper-less, mitten-less, hat-less, jacket-less future.