Just Beware the Ides of March
Truculent winter, stuck,
an old man in his easy chair,
fixed in place, unable, unwilling, despite the date,
to give up and leave, my shouts near useless,
as are my calls to that dog, barking ceaselessly outside, saying
“It is late, just another couple of weeks, and it will be Spring.”
Remember the bulbs we planted, struggling,
ready to burst their shells, ready to rise
through shallow layers of thin, surrounding earth,
like the anxious youths they are wont to be,
ready to greet the warming air,
grin at the bright new glorious lights of day.
But Oh! Doesn’t this winter resemble that Dictator
we have known,
who would have his way, forcing us
to stay within the walls he’d build,
denying even our right to vote him away,
to negate the powers of his sway.
So he swaggers through streets
of his most recent snow,
we buttoned-up coat-covered creatures, tossed
to either side. We shiver.
We are silent. Our gloved opinions
we keep, for the moment, to ourselves.
But we know; we know! The symbolic moment,
The Ides of March, are just ahead,
and when he imposes himself at the Capital Steps,
his come-uppance is sure to arrive as well