March came in lamb-coloured at least, on curly white snow feet.
And went out like a liar, savannah bright sun looking lion roaring heat.
Tripping cold feet, tricking me into scarf and sweater instead of jacket leather.
April’s first folly finds me in bed with a hot head cold.
Mais, en français, avril premiers with a fish not a fool.
I guess the poisson’s on me.
. . . . .