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When the snow freezes and the dogs walk stiff-legged through the yards, Following by habit their accustomed trails and tripping into frozen prints That lie like little land-mines in the hard, silent white…. When I foolishly make plans, half-knowing that they'll mock me, Broken branches in a sleet-storm, strewn across the calendar…. When I sort through all the left-hand gloves…. I fear this month, with its ice-patch pitfalls grinning, waiting For the tire or foot that shrugs at winter just before the crash. I fear the chocolate promises, the heart-shaped disillusions. The hopes of the old, the beliefs of the young-- I fear for them-- In February. February by Judy Schilling |
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