March Mooness

by Marion McCready

The March moon ducks behind fast flowing spume-clouds
pouring across the sky, wind-whipped and pinkish mauve
against the navy night, against the moon-bulb flowering
between cloud-blast. March mooness. The sky
is not mellow and twinkling. The sky is no respite for the eye,
for the mind. It is a swift passing. Clouds are unbuttoned shirts
flapping around me, drawing me into a promise of warmth,
of arms, of heldness. Will the clouds hold? Will March moon
come out? Will the night air envelop me? I envelop the night air.