Morning wind chill — minus 45 degrees. It is hard
to fire up your engine and crawl from a warm bed.
Spring may be approaching, somewhere, but here,
the rising sun is a scoop of pale orange sherbet.
It’s true, February is the briefest month — be wary.
Freezing plus melting plus freezing equals treachery.
Pity the deer, sore-hoofed, pawing hard glazed snow,
to forage slim grass strands through jagged ice shards.
February is psychotic — uncaring and remorseless:
diabolical impressario of winter’s deadliest storms.
Present Valentines to those who survive the month;
console yourself with each added minute of sunlight.
© by Glen Sorestad.
Used with the author’s permission.