stark, cold, ugly
despite her pretty white
cosmetics and howling winds,
that try to deceive us into
thinking her lovely. she’s not.
she’s a liar.
i suppose if she were not
among us, then another month
by some other name
would bear her drudgery.
it is during her reign
with long cold, cloudy days
when powder covers
earth that i miss green
and flowers and butterflies,
hayfields and long walks
in bare feet and pastel colors,
dragonflies and pond lilies,
golden sunsets and cricket songs.
still, i find reason to be thankful
that she only comes once every
twelve months and when she is gone
spring things begin to creep back
up these hollers and over these hills.
in february crocus will dare to show
their faces; birds will defy the temps
and sing anyway. january will die away.
she always does.