March may be the official start of spring, but at least here in New England it is about as far from all things pastel as a person can get.
March is the filthy, bleary-eyed morning after a frat party.
The ground squelches and slurps with each moist step. Viscous fluids slick boots and cuffs.
People shuffle. Wary. Waiting to fall.
Eyes squint in protest of the unfamiliar brightness of the sun.
Items abandoned during the snow drunk days of winter, now lie scattered across the landscape: an old menu, flattened beer cans, frozen tennis balls, hats hung like Christmas Eve, oh so many widowed gloves, even a slipper that had no call to be out of doors.
In the months to come we'll remember winter's highlights, its beauty and joys, but right now winter is a party that went on for way too long, and there's a hell of a lot of cleaning to be done.