February almost March bites the cold.
Take down a book, wind pours in. Frozen--
the Garden of Eden--its oil, if freed, could warm
the world for 20 years and nevermind the storm.

Winter's after me--she's out
with sheets so white it hurts the eyes. Nightgown,
pillow slip blow thru my bare catalpa trees,
no objects here.

In February almost March a snow-blanket
is good manure, a tight-bound wet
to move toward May: give me lupines and a care
for her growing air.


 = Shelley Lynn Johnson