I’m finding it hard to want
what is out my window, the soggy smear
of a worn-out season. Last week’s rare snow
and ice have retreated
to only the deepest ditches, revealing all our secrets:
bare places in last summer’s weedy lawn,
the last skeletons of hydrangea, even the faithful rosemary
is winter-weary now.
I was too warm in my sleep, tangled in kicked-off comforter,
twisted quilt. February is the color of mud,
sounds like the hiss and sigh of tires on wet pavement.
I lift my eyes, and the stark unburdened branches
promise to write a new story, their tips
drip down something like hope,
swell beneath their bark with something like promise.
Seeking midwinter inspiration with other good folks
writing along in February at Write ALM