February

Drinking in the February sky
Is far too cold an occupation on
A windswept day. Indeed, for such as I,
Who feel a single chill breeze and are gone,
There is no love lost with this empty time
Which stretches out, though short, interminably,
An earthly incarnation of Trollheim
Or Fimbulwinter, come inevitably
To break us down and scatter from our hands
What might be warm or joyous in the world.
And yet this lonely month only demands
Four weeks of us; then we are swiftly hurled
Unready into March. February
Seems desolate, not beautiful, to me.