March blows its schizophrenic, furious blast
Of snow, of rain, of wind, of cold. It clings
To every ledge. It struggles, strains to last
For one more precious day. But April brings
The spring at last. It pushes some to live,
To sow fresh fields, to reaffirm the hope
In life reborn. And compelled then to give
To others needing more, who need a rope
To which to cling while one who has will share
A bounty born of labor on the land,
Of selfless desire, being ones who care
For hopeless ones who live lives built on sand.
They do but what they can, to do the right
Thing. Only men of God still fight the fight.

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