February

Yesterday

I dreamed I was the wind—

shrill, harsh, shrieking around the corner of the house

scooping snow and flinging it

amongst the moaning trees,

and as in the way of dreams,

I dreamt I was the snow,

a flurry of helpless flakes

swirling, flying madly in three directions at once—

up, down, sideways, veiling the landscape in torn lace.

In the midst of snow and wind

I was a sparrow clinging to a bending forsythia branch,

feathers fluffed against the cold,

guarding my small, valiant heart

against February’s bared teeth.

And I became what hides behind the wind,

behind the snow, beyond the cold,

that which remains nameless in its vastness

its otherness, its unknowable self

except in dreams. That which writes the world

in symbols we struggle to interpret.

inclement weather

birds flit and dance in the wind

hovering round the feeders

jousting for position at the tray

feasting on seed and suet

cold clamps its hands around us all

holds us out to the buffeting wind

warmth is a clouded memory

light a pale gray shroud

snow is a promise held at bay

until evening; when the sky opens

flakes will tumble down

only to melt in the path of warmer air

that overnight will turn the snow to ice.

on the morrow ice will turn to rain-

on the weather map a ragged patch of

deep blue hovers northward

its fingers reaching, reaching

turning rain back to ice

and ice back to snow.

the weather favors winter just now.