Bodies moist with sweat,

The slog of battle coursing through strained sinew.

A hand trails through chilled waters,

Casually splitting a large algae patty.

Memories of clashing swords,

Competing with fire and ash.

Parades filled with politicians,

Adorned with shiny raiments and gold.

Beware the Ides of March,

Though her crocus be bright and fair.

Many a gladiator did dream of Nature's vernal abandon,

Never to again see the sun.

Katryese Austin

(c) Feb 24, 2022

Winter, beware!

The ides of March will soon

Arrive with a shout,

"Your reign is over"

At least here,

In the South,

Where not even

Your pink and gold

Tangled sheets of light

Streaming across the

Twilight sky

Can change our minds

It's over,

The toil and slog

Your icy fingers bring,

Gone, with one, warm,                                        Vernal breath,

Like ash caught up

On the breeze.

With flowers from the

Purple crocus in my hair,

I will carry news to

Our vilified groundhog

We aren't waiting

Five more days

Just to satisfy the calendar

Saint Patty's Day

Will launch the celebration

With so much green,

It just has to be Spring!

a vernal flower in the ides of the year

a crocus made of golden tears.

ashes spilled from winter's urn

snow is turned to slog as sun rises in the morn,

the march of spring across the winter-trodden fields

leaving gold and sun at its radiant heels.

patties frying on open grills,

until from the skies, the water spills.

a vernal flower in the ides of the year,

brief beauty that perseveres.