Oh March, you oddity…neither here nor there, yet everywhere. The sort of month which finds flip flops in the kitchen and Wellingtons thrown into the back seat of the car; hot bowls of chili one day and a four year old asking for popsicles the very next moment.
The Ides of March with the grim accusations of disloyalty and violence…and the happy leprechaun dancing two days later with green abandon. You play your sillies while the winds off the lake rage against the side of the house and the street is white and thick with silence.
Perhaps I shall hazard a trip to the post office or I may peruse summer linens…
690 Saint Paul 