Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
A single green sprouting thing
would restore me . . .
Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes
to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
~Jane Kenyon from “February: Thinking of Flowers”
Turning the page on the calendar today doesn’t fix anything. The arctic wind is blasting frozen again, snow is in the forecast, the skies practically crackle cold.
I’m like a dog tormented by my own open and raw flesh, trying my best to lick it healed, unable to think of anything or anyone else, going over it again and again: how tired I feel, how bruised I am, how high the climb I must make, how uprooted I feel, how impossibly long it will be until I’m warm again.
Even now green sprouts try to push up even while molested by ice. Soon fresh blooms will grace the barnyard and I will be distracted from my own wound licking.
It’s February and it’s a northeaster.
The cold never bothered me anyway…