Slightly less depressing, I guess
that March arched differently,
I suppose. I met her with eyes closed,
no hoes, and overloaded with heavy snow.
She was caustic and firey,
smoke frequently enrolled in her nose;
she was never parched. She would
gather wood, but the pills peeled away
the spark and she never had the fury.

I was not in tune to see flowers bloom,
but I just escaped the want for a boom.
She made me focus on her though,
her eyes so low, her mouth so slow
with ice flows, her tongue rolled
but still my tired eyes glowed.