If the edge of the landscape starts to light around 7 am,
the month of February must be growing wan.
Frost, not snow clings to the pasture grass,
a welcome, earlier, sun glistens in the East.
Its light is weak, the color of pale straw
or the long-faded weeds of the side ditch.
Fleeting moments in a wave of warmth,
they slipping away, to warm another day.
Like the sun, newborn calves grow stronger in the afternoons,
struggling to find their wobbly limbs,
mother’s throaty lows warn them close when they ramble.
Like me in my hat out for a walk,
they seek the sporatic warmth on hillsides,
faces toward the sun, eyes softly closed.
A moment later, cold wind drives them to the woods
and urges me back indoors.
I saw a few geese head North last evening.
Regrettably, they are a bit early.
Oh what a teaser month;
a little warmth, a little sun and
we think it is spring.
It is not;
it’s just February in Indiana.
Filed under: Poems
