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.

January

There is a blue light at dawn that soon fades to grey

and stays there even

as the barn cat goes to hunt at dusk.

Sometimes, though, the steely sky silhouette’s

the grain-leg and the shed as if sketched by pencil lead

while a blush of pink peeks between clouds

at day’s end.

Two pairs of gloves, overalls, a hat and coat,

the gear required for morning chores.

Ice hangs on the fence line, in the trees

and glitters on a few brown blades of grass.

The cattleman worries over ears and tails,

keeping newborn calves warm and dry.

As the line of round bales slowly depletes,

days lengthen desperately slow.

When will colors return to the sky,

the fields, and even the stones of the creek?

Oh, I crave the bright-light of May,

or at least a balmy April afternoon!

By:

Sarah Beth Aubrey