Marmota monax

Overcast and a fifty-percent chance of rain 
a woodchuck stands motionless 
His hind feet balance as the hairs on his tail straighten 
He plays statue and so do I 
I've alarmed the poor critter 
this rodent of many names 
groundhog 
red monk 
whistlepig 
I grew up calling them woodchucks 
I liked repeating the tongue twister 
How much wood would a woodchuck chuck 
As a kid 
I discovered one in our basement 
Dad ushered the creature out the cellar door 
It's March nearing April 
one of the drabbest and messiest months 
Instead of snow 
mounds of dirt peppered with pop cans 
and other litter line the roadside 
Most people aren't fond of March 
though I am 
It's Mom's birth month 
and its unpleasant appearance is the first sign of spring 
I've compared March to the unpolished sounds of a first act 
grin and bear it until the headliner arrives 
Thinking of spring 
I've lost sight of Chuck 
He's run off 
toward his burrow 
back to the safety of his underground home 
He's unsure of humans 
At times 
aren't we all?
                        

As if nudges 
early light nestles within leaflets 
Stems glow where the gentle jogs of day 

settle between the dense foliage of oxalis 
As greenery radiates 
eases your gray fatigue 

Santa’s waving motion catches your eye 
A few holiday whatnots remain 
including the festive fella 

with the perpetual wave 
From across the room 
you watch the rotation of his left arm 

a velvety cheer enters your being 
His battery has yet to fail 
nor will yours 

Like summer boaters 
the ones who send sweeping 
greetings from across the lake 

you remember 
joy generates joy 
After the glacial months 

warmth is an event of elation 
You know what to do 
how to recharge your leaden lens 

you’ll wrap your body in layers of clothing 
head outside into your seasonal disorder 
and like your sunroom Santa 

you’ll wave to everyone 
you encounter on your subzero walk 
until you’re fully charged 

for you know any message of joy 
generates more joy