marching through

the snow melts leaving black lumps laced with craggy crystalline structures along the edges of roads and driveways where it has piled up shovel full by shovel full.  the sound of plastic trash barrels rolling down the street mixed in with the howling of the wind.  the smell of peppermint scented lotion and toenail polish.  the world is grey.  the yellow ochre fronds of willow bounce in the wind, the brightest thing in the landscape is the dried pampas grass that fills the ditches and swamps along the highway.  one day  the wind slaps your face and brings tears to your eyes, the next it lifts your hair and caresses your neck.  one day wool long underwear, the next flip flops as you slop through the filthy puddles in the parking lot, wiggling your freshly painted toes.  cars are washed and the salt and sand whipped up by the wind make them filthy again before driving just a few hundred yards.  the dog whines to go out, the rain pelts the window in hard splashes.  march is bipolar.  march is smiling full of hope, march is grey spotted with light.

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