After February’s late-winter blast,
Junipers bend weighted with ice.
Pine trees stand crusted with snow.
A cold, black train whistles in the distance.
Just in time March sings an overture.
Robins sport jaunty orange breasts,
Woodpeckers drum on hollow trunks,
Redbirds flame singing on wires.
Then, April glides in like a debutante.
Bluebells blanket forest floors,
Purple phlox dine with Lilacs,
Forsythia flashes robes of yellow glory.
But none of this could be without March:
singer of first things, whose purpose is
to show, take a bow, then be forgotten.
After retiring from a 48-year career in the printing industry in 2013, Michael Escoubas began writing poetry for publication. His study of and interest in poetry goes back some 30 years. During this time he studied classical and modern poets learning from their works and from critics who comment about them. Michael writes poetry in part because his mother once said, “You have a gift for words; you should do something with that gift.”