It’s in the air, poetry in February.
When the wind swept birds dive in for a drive-thru feast,
And the squirrels hoard all fall’s nuts, dug from under the sleeping grass.
Small birds retreat but wait to greet the seed that is shared.
Bundled and alone, there is no snow, but it’s definitely Winter.
Poetry in February is the chill in the breeze and the frozen street.
Calmness collides with the beauty of solace,
Soothing your soul at this dark juncture.
Speak to me sweet season of sleep.
The spell you leave creeps over me.
Everything Remains 