February

Thankful we are
that February is the shortest month
that of cold to which we have at last
become accustomed.

In heavy ice storms
the newest branches
snap as fragile as new love.

And inside February's roses
die as we clothe ourselves in wool.

But when snow falls
it blankets us until
we dream of promises,
of springtime.

By the river where I walk,
the winds are scathing.
At night they howl
like lonely wolves
who wake the children.

Despite the bleakness
we have not forgotten forsythia.

Let no day pass
unkissed into the night,
and no slumber silence
the diamonds in our eyes.