March is a dangerous month.
March is longing and desperation. The months of being indoors have worn away the cartilage of my psyche; every dream I have is a raw ache of bone on bone.
March is the month I most desperately dream of moving someplace new, of starting a new life. Perhaps a move to Africa to study chimps or a farm in Wisconsin.
March is impotent restlessness. Too cold to put out the laundry for a proper airing out. Too cold to walk without feeling winters bite.
When March offers a thaw we grab at it greedily, pushing our faces to the sun, we inhale the scent of snow melting as it trickles in rivers down the driveway.
In March we pace. We watch the sky and thermometer, waiting.
Will it be today?
Will I see green today?
Will I be saved from March?