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The thing about February is

lashing its white icy tail

asleep in a basket of sticks


yet potent

as a wind bearing the north.

The thing about February is

its longing for change

leaning toward anything different

anything beside the silvering cold

a short haircut

a new recipe

a death.

The thing about February is

the constricting band that binds

hands to hips

ankle to ankle

the urge to sleep

until spring.

The thing about February is

the garden nursery store

a rack of seed packets

but no potting soil

no flower pots

no saucers.

The thing about February is

the crust of soiled snow

hungry birds fighting for seeds

while overtaken by weariness

an old lady leaves lost for home.

The Karakesh Chronicles

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Who will be there to celebrate

my three score and ten?

When the March winds spin

will I still be virus hidden,

family seeded across the continent,

sprouting outside my garden?

Who will be there

beside my jumbled praises

congratulations for living

so much longer than my mother,

blames for choosing poorly,

pouring a glass of regret

in the pressing dark?

The question appears:

What was I doing

all those years?

Everything I Cannot Bear Is Here

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                        inspired by Letter Home by Pamela Alexander

Everything I cannot bear is here:

1) Clutter: half-filled cardboard boxes, labeled: kitchen, art supplies, obsolete electronics, books, books, books

2) Too much company but no help

3) Stupid stuff that we keep but never use: last decade’s prescription glasses, your mother’s junk jewelry, Spanish pesos in a cloth bag, adapter plugs from Southeast Asia

4) Disorder: desk strewn with papers, notes, a motion light needing batteries

5) Unfinished projects on the sewing machine, on the daybed, on the laptop

6) Fear of icy driveways, isolation, power outages, falling, wrong choices