February evokes mediations
on mortality: not only the cold,
but the bleak crunch of ice on fastened boot,
plumage panicky at the bird-feeder,
lowering slate clouds that appear endless,
bare skeletal trees, frozen local pond,
hungry sweaters gathering food and fuzz,
dwindling stack of logs by clanking woodstove.
Sometimes overcoming February
brings out the best in me as I shovel
mounds of snow into sensible pathways,
fill the stew pot with vegetables and herbs,
talk to myself like I’m in asylum.
The latter is what really keeps me sane.