february

cut short,
sometimes sweet,
the gentleness pleads
with the dark of the sky to be
a softer, quieter understanding
in the frosty teasing —
i aim to please, to lead
a revolution of need;
i am begged between
the solid tedium and thrilling hum
of disturbing the numb
fingers that cannot rest
with the sun that has set,
little see, riddle let,
a hotspot of wintery death.

tat attack crack
a meandering way
to fall within the black
of a biting wind,
south or north, you say, you sin
but all that’s seen is
a loss or win —
trickle down elements,
a host of increments
that make the stakes
you can bend or break,
take or give
when what you want
won’t help you live.

Photo by Colby Thomas on Unsplash