a pinprick of longing
peers among the trees,
(the wind no longer
whispers her sadness
of Winter departing)

bone-weary, midnight
crawls back into bed,
trailing a hollow glow
behind him

minutes pass coldly,
slipping into a stranger’s
rough palms like
pocket change

February remains a
mere baby’s breath
away, giving us enough
time to gather all the
singed-tip matches we
struck to keep us warm