While a cold, heartless month like January gets to stuff its face with 31 whole days,
¿a lovely month like February only gets 28 —
& maybe 29 when there’s an extra crumb?
Proof o’ the cruel capitalism o’ reality.
Bleak & cold
gray morns warm my heart ~
month o’ love.
Im Schatten des Tal des Todes,
sie schneiden uns die Handgelenke und schicken uns in den Himmel ~
die erste Blume nach der Flut.
Brisk morn ~
1,000,000 smooth rocks.
¿How am I s’posed to touch them all?
( Note: due to internet outages, this poem comes 1 week after the event ).
Sunday morn in peace ~
lone, pieces fall together.
February snow.
Sunday day in pieces ~
e’en the tree I’ve known fore’er
falls dead.
Not so silly anymo’ ~
a fir’s yellow scarf.
Me dejaste aquí como un contorno de tiza
en la acera esperar para la lluvia lavarse, lavarse.
Sigues volviendo al lugar del crimen,
pero los muertos no pueda hablar y no queda nada decir, de todos modos.
Those were the words I heard in summer 2012,
when 1st I learned that no foundation keeps its build;
higher than 5 years following, you remind me
the prophesy forgotten fell fulfilled.
Cosy sheets,
cosy lamp,
cosy clipped fingernails.
February morning frost ~
breathing smoke
but… chimney smoke.
Sour smell o’ tomato soup
& excess sodium…
…in the wound.
Yellow February ~
the ‘lone stop where I read ’bout ants.
E’en they aren’t here anymo’…
4 AM,
hot winter showers ~
coffee pot.
Super Blue Blood Moon™ ~
nothing like what journos
write about you.
I look forward to the next super-awesome-you-can’t-miss-it moon that you’ll ne’er see for ‘nother century next year.
