The months of change do me no good at all. In March and November, my anxiety spikes, Under heavy, shifting pressure. Not fear, but something primal-- Angst in my gut, like a bad meal. At my age, a body knows the poetry-- A language older than the mind. March wears winter like a mask; It breathes winterβs remnants And chokes out plastics and debris. Only when Iβm embedded in summer Can I bear fruit from the soil of my mind, Enjoy the long days of light, And wear my old hat into heaven.