Time to eat fat and watch hockey

February Moon   by Betty Albert

"The word February is believed to have derived from the name 'Februa' taken from the Roman 'Festival of Purification'.  The root 'februo' meaning to 'I purify by sacrifice'.  As part of the seasonal calendar February is the time of the 'Ice Moon' according to Pagan beliefs, and the period described as the 'Moon of the Dark Red Calf' by Black Elk.  February has also been known as 'Sprout-kale' by the Anglo-Saxons in relation to the time the kale and cabbage was edible."
-  Mystical WWW

February Full Moon over Wasatch Front  by Jeffrey Favero

 

even though it's not late February, this observation applies today:

"Late February, and the air's so balmy snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard will come, blighting our harbingers of spring, and the numbed yards will go back undercover.  In Florida, it's strawberry season— shortcake, waffles, berries and cream will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus."
-  Gail Mazur, The Idea of Florida During a Winter Thaw

Cardinal   by Alex Grey




I love this poem by Margaret Atwood:

February
                                            

By Margaret Atwood 

 

                                            

Winter. Time to eat fat

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,

a black fur sausage with yellow

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries

to get onto my head. It’s his

way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am

He’ll think of something. He settles

on my chest, breathing his breath

of burped-up meat and musty sofas,

purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,

not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,

declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,

which are what will finish us off

in the long run. Some cat owners around here

should snip a few testicles. If we wise

hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,

or eat our young, like sharks.

But it’s love that does us in. Over and over

again, He shoots, he scores! and famine

crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing

eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits

thirty below, and pollution pours

out of our chimneys to keep us warm.

February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries

with a splash of vinegar.

Cat, enough of your greedy whining

and your small pink bumhole.

Off my face! You’re the life principle,

more or less, so get going

on a little optimism around here.

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Margaret Atwood, “February” from Morning in the Burned House. Copyright © 1995 by Margaret Atwood. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.