A blustery March morning
sends cherry blossoms scurrying
off tree limbs,
dancing down the burnished street.
Swirling and dipping,
the flower petals
are ballet dancers performing
to a boisterous etude.
As each gust robs the trees of their spring clothing,
darkening skies tell tall of a storm brewing.
My cheeks glow red against the chilly air
and my fingers grow numb.
A light thermal vest is little comfort
against the cold.
March can be fickle,
we are only pieces moved about
on nature’s chessboard.