My crocuses are pushing through the leaf beds in my gardens.
The skies, deep gray in mounted mourning.
One more day of March to delight in my winter burdens,
the buried vault of simile, quaint and obtuse.
One more day to search through parched earth for thought and whim,
carved by hail, starved and too thin for even one haiku.
Within this charade of poet, my repertoire shivers.
I am a fraud in search of a muse.