March in Portland means weather of every kind (hail, sun, snow, rain, freezing, 60°) in a single day on most days. The weather in March poems ranges too. In Lizette Woodworth Reese’s Mid-March “It is too early for white boughs, too late / For snows” and “The days go out with shouting.” Swinburne‘s March is a “master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite,” but William Matthew’s March is hot, with thick air — “Nothing can ease the March heat / nor make it stay.”
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me –
I have so much to tell –
I got your letter, and the Birds –
The Maples never knew that you were coming –
I declare – how Red their Faces grew –
But I think my favorite of these March poems is “Late March” by Edward Hirsch, in which the day is
[…] blue, preternaturally blue,like the sky in a Magritte painting,and cold, vividly cold, so thatyou could clap your hands and rememberwinter, which had left a few moments ago—if you strained you could almost see itdisappearing over the hills in a black parka.