Ode to March. Or something.

Dear March,

I love you because you are the beginning of spring. You are the month Jay was born, nearly three years ago. You start with M and end with “arch”, when lots of months end in “buuuurrr” or something-ary.

You are different, beautiful. Cold, but not entirely unpleasant.

I like to move, and so do you. You are a verb in a calendar of nouns.

You remind us to get off our asses and run because spring is marching on and summer is coming with its bikinis and tank tops. You sweetly whisper not to fret the gray skies and frigid days because they will soon be gone. You often give us the first taste of those delicious warm days ahead, sprinkled bittersweetly with the delicate snow of a winter that is losing its grip on the land, and with it, my pasty white shoulders.

I love you because you are not January.

I love you because you push up fresh green shoots of hope through a frozen hard earth. I love you because you can’t decide between rain and snow, but February never even thinks about it. I love you because you let February have an extra day every few years, just because you’re swell and, like totally not a control freak.

Thank you March, for all you do and all that you are. See you tomorrow.

Me