February a baleful month
dabbed with deep darkness,
the calendar's mortuary
nature's own Gulag.
Its window opens upon
possible impossibilities
none of which yield joy.
Crows plummet murderously
from the heavens
vainly trying to flee
into spring but merely splat.
Roads are crushed
beneath a carpet of ****.
Frosted blimps soar naked.
Boots refuse to stay tied.
Your parent's nightmares
freeze your sweaty sleep.
Snow falls like dead swans.
Eclairs crystallize into
lumps too solid to enjoy.
A month of undeserved
solitary confinement
that trembles the soul.
A deep achromatic terror
keening coldness
in a huge white wail
penetrating the ears
until march stops
the madness and hope
blossoms as crocuses,
apricity achieved,
small phosphorescent
dots of desire.

  ~mce

Somewhere between the dream of what it could be
and what it wanted to be, this poem hightailed it
out of town. Down the road it went, careening into
hedgerows, jostling small birds from their resting
time. Running for all it's worth, out to the sea cliffs
then arrested, stock still, before all that immensity.
Chagrined by such a rash attempt at escape, even
blushing a bit, it wondered about strange things:
What would it be like to be a badger? To always be
dressed in all those lovely stripes? To never have bad
wardrobe days?  Or what about an otter, with such
strong muscles, and an utter delight for swimming?
To never really feel the cold? These are the things a
poem can wonder about, when it isn't quite sure, just
right then, in the present moment, how to be a poem.

The house of my soul
has many rooms,
foundation poured
over many lifetimes,
the layout determined
by some master architect.
Each room has
its own view
of the world.
Cannot say I've changed;
can say
as ages pass,
the rooms inhabited
are not the same.

winter's whisper shouts
louder than the full-throated
bellow of springtime.

icy blue skies are
clear and cold reality;
not a dream in sight.

there is a vast peace
in the respite
of disease;
aware both of
infinite time
and finite life,
giving notice to
what endures,
what passes.
each moment hangs
glowing in
the sunset of eternity,
perfect,
ripe and juicy
as the strawberry
growing
from the cliff.
tiger of living above,
chasm of death below,
hanging by a
breaking branch
with red-stained lips.