It is the shortest month, like you can almost see the end of
it while still standing in the very first day.
It is meat-locker cold, wind-laden and chafing. It is long dark hours, blackened coal skies
that muddle to smears of gray and white behind an orb that claims to be the
sun.
At night a fingernail scratch of white grins over a cold planet
Mars one hour after sunset.
There is a pain in inhaling that cold air, there is a bite
in taking tiny sips of the day. Pale, a
white candle burned down to the nub with its fragile black wick a reminder of
heat.
The crunch of dead leaves, stuck in puddles of ice,
alongside a road once black but now streaked in salts and deicing stains. Small clusters of snow turn gray,
mushroom-colored stumps flecked with black.
And all these taillights…and people warm in cars heading to a place I will never see.
I get home, headlights on the trees, knowing how cold it is
and wanting to stay briefly in the car.
Later.
I think of you when I come in with wood for the fire, my
boots shedding clumps of snow that reflect against the flames…tiny sparkles of
ice that melt and disappear into the cords of the carpet.
Gone.
