Locked in

This year, mid-February is a locked-in month--
snow bound under crust, weighted down by
rock-hard chunks of ice. None of this softens
in the heat of the rising sun that climbs earlier
and stays longer in the February sky.
The sun that strokes this alien landscape,
wraps icy fingers around its substance.
Forbids thawing, suspends stirrings of spring forms.
Holds everything in stillness, without motion.

The wind returns each day, works in union
with the winter sun, licks simple thaw
before it can leak into the sky.
It rises under the floorboards of my den,
falls from the attic through my upstairs ceiling,
slips around window panes, casts a cold frame
on this space I call home.

There is so much inertia when faced with
a force like this. So much effort is needed
to change its direction. The present course,
no matter how bitter, seems preferable
to facing blinding sunshine, harsh winter wind.

Perhaps the fear of what lies beyond
a challenge to the elements keeps me
stolidly inside, warm by the wood stove.
Perhaps the uncertainty of what will replace
this winter landscape makes me hold it dear.
Perhaps I simply cannot imagine a time without
everything that is now the essence of everyday.

So, instead of meeting this winter head on,
instead of challenging it with scarf and hat,
instead of slogging through its ice and crusty snow,
I sit in the comfort of the warm woodstove,
seeking comfort in the certainty of spring's return.