March in California means t-shirts—Sunsoaked.
Dappled gold flowers, fields overflowing with bloom.
Still white clouds frozen in the blue vaults of sky  
Like ants stuck in amber, without movement or sway.
Kids flying on bicycles down neighborhood hills,
Shouting, whooping, and hollering through.
Imagining themselves on horses flying down country lanes.
Asphalt heat-shimmering,
Humidity over the grass,
Like the radiance of something that can’t help but be alive.

To grow in a setting like this,
The perfect pure paradise of climate and scenery.
I cannot help thinking—
This place has never heard of winter.