Month most maligned
Caught between seasons
Neither winter nor spring
Lacking the best of either
Displaying the worst of both

Or perhaps that is its glory
Being not one thing or the other
But itself, juncture of memory and promise
Consecrating cherished experience
Anticipating unfolding beauties

Being seventy is like March
Caught between seasons
Neither young nor old
Expecting to do what body refuses
Resisting the repose from which mind recoils

Or perhaps that is its glory
Being not one thing or the other
But itself, juncture of memory and promise
Consecrating cherished experience
Anticipating unfolding beauties