Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers......"
From: "The Waste Land, (The Burial of the Dead)" by T. S. Eliot
(with apologies to T. S. Eliot)
February is the cruelest month
breeding death and stygian darkness.
Hungry Robins peck the unforgiving ground
and Cardinals perch listlessly on dry, brittle branches.
February is a miserable month---
colorless, frigid, gloomy and bleak.
Depression hangs in the air like
cigarette smoke in a rag-tag honky-tonk---
Sadness staggers from room to empty room
dragging heavy, lethargic feet.
Time steals friends and tosses them to
the incinerator, burning them to bitter, black ash...
Suffering grabs you by the throat and chokes
you until you gasp and pant for air. . .
You silently whisper a cry for help---
and who shows up?