For Mr. February

 February days ebbed and flowed between sun-rain-snow

His coat is ragged burlap and his cap is thatch, gray-gold

He lumbers over hinterland and hill; a vagabond

From pockets feather-flowers fall and blue shadows unfold

Where brusque against dusk’s pastel west the fir tree waves its wand

He never shows his face, and he seems older than his days

A lonely sort of fellow, no fanfare to hail his storm

He scuffles by where summer-dreamers sigh for turquoise bays

While stark against infringing dark the pine tree flaunts its form 

He musters brooding blusters, quick-tempered, misunderstood 

He broadens daylight's dome and gleans a hip-hooray or two

Then scatters silver mirrors and flatters the frosted wood 

His sky stays pinker longer when the day is almost through

‘Dear forlorn Mr. February, wherefore wilt thou go

And who waitest to meet thee as thou fadest from the land?’

Methinks I hear a tear but it is tossed and lost in snow

Where cold against the eventide the frigid poplars stand

© Janet Martin