Since it is February
my pens all lay in disarray atop my desk,
a box of tissues crouches underneath,
nearly empty on the fifteenth.
Twenty dollars, six gallons of gas,
radio streaming from Sirius, I try driving away the stillness.
Those bruised and patient pens will wait an eternity,
or February.
Nowhere are these thoughts not there.
I find serial murders of crows, low lying clouds
hovering and bitter cold from below
all cast down in ochre light.
I try to forget
any distinct lines
any distinct lines
with clarity and save the cruelty
for April.
Piercing eyes also translates
into Truth
and the inevitable thaw, moving matters,
the fiery tears Fall with drowned dreams.
Heavy, a serious wind is now winding down
her watch and brevity makes beauty
of all passing. If you remember
how purple was this February...
it must just be
Time
the words mixed
blood and ink.
Painting of Borris (Pasternak) beside the Baltic (1910), By L.Pasternak [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
