Beware the Ides

March, cruelest of months
Teases with warmth, buds, blooms
Scorns with sleet, snow, wind.
Jonquils, maples, forsythia smile
When the days reach sixty or seventy
Only to be slapped with an icy fury
When the days struggle even for twenty.
Used to bitter betrayals
The blossoms have learned
Do not trust this month
Do not plan to flourish
Just be there to sentinel
For the ones in April.

March, cruelest of months
Forever making promises
It never intends to keep.