Because I hate weather poetry, I am awake before the dawn
shuffling my mindless body through this winter house,
suffocating thoughts about blizzards, and wind, icicles and
the lengthening of daylight.
Because I don’t wish to write about snow, now littered
in dirty patches on my front walk, melting alongside the house,
where it seeps through the brick, to puddle itself, musty
upon my basement floor.
Because I have this wild adversity to weather synopsis,
parading about as verse, with feathers on display, proud
as the peacock, that nipped my heels, every chance it got,
in an uncle’s garden, one childhood summer.
Because it is almost February, dreaded month,
the shortest month, that takes a lifetime, it seems,
to survive, watching for signs of life, ignoring the obvious,
that all groundhogs are con artists.
Because the Christmas flowers stand dead in their vases,
throughout these rooms, crispy brown heads, displayed
precariously on rotted stems, staring resentfully at my back,
as if it was me, that cut their pretty, green lives short.