Who's a February fan? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Me neither. And it's only just begun. Hi-ho.
This poem by Bill Christophersen has a delightfully melodramatic approach (I can't read it seriously or I'll want to wither and die) to the month we all love to hate. It has it all: anxiety, insomnia and nightmares, recriminations, and lost hope. Whoosh.
Let's be grateful that February is only 28 days. So, take heart. Nothing lasts forever, not even February.
by Bill Christophersen
The cold grows colder, even as the days
grow longer, February's mercury vapor light
buffing but not defrosting the bone-white
ground, crusty and treacherous underfoot.
This is the time of year that's apt to put
a hammerlock on a healthy appetite,
old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)
Jone Rush MacCulloch is hosting the roundup this week.
(Photo courtesy of Benjamin Lehman and Pexels.)