Blow, if ye must March gales, for we are finished with thee. Winter’s contract is complete. It is signed in grey and sealed in exhaustion.
Our eyes turn toward the greening of the fields as faint strains of ‘O, Danny Boy’ birthe liltingly and trippingly over rutted, frozen potato mounds, raw earth and twisted fence lines.
You threw us famine and we are cooking up thick, crunchy potato cakes. We are done with thee. Go then; smell the black sod and the snapping hot oil.
Blow, if ye must, but shamrock fog shall soon carry thee away…
690 Saint Paul 