It’s March, moody, mumbling, left-over darkness; March, not really prairie winter, but a surly disheveled February without the layer of usable often beautiful snow.
It is the month for a crotchety wind god.
There are days (measured better by hours than days) when a bit of warmth blows out of the south and the remembrance of Spring and roses and a whiff of delicate green breath pauses our glum-poets chill. That best might come (probably will come, but when oh when).
Ah, let hope bring a once vanquished wind goddess to momentarily step forward spreading charmed exhalation upon the leadened gloom.