February

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The thing about February is

lashing its white icy tail

asleep in a basket of sticks

unopened

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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Winter Walk

Photo by Burak K on Pexels.com

Words align on the edges of our scarves

fragile crystals, sharp, faceted,

coated in ice, each corner distinct,

a march of glass fragments,

broken when spoken.

Night frosts the woolen threads.

Breath freezes into blame

that can’t swallow back.

Snow crust crunches.

Scarves bunch beneath pursed lips.

Words too cold to be lost

Preserved in unforgettable permafrost.