March snuggles beneath winter covers,
Hardened under autumn’s russet leftovers,
And brittle hand-me-downs.
Wind, as callous as starched bed sheets,
Ices breaths on windowpanes.

Then a museum-hush comes to Georgia’s hills.
Awkward April creeps in like a silent sunrise.
Milk-colored sky blooms azure, like a robin’s egg.
“Homerun” and “RBI” sprinkle into conversations.
A whimper of blossom here, a pinprick of scarlet there.

Fresh turned furrows and cut grass perfume the air.
Bears yawn broadening their wooly chests.
Children’s glee ricochets from park swings.
Pastures glow like emerald carpet.
Crocus test the velvet warmth.

Why endure a mountain winter?
Because there is a spring.