February
by Jill
Osier
Sometimes
a flag quietly appears
and
leads one to a camp in the snow.
Oh,
I am sick. I fade, I fall,
I
curse this month, all it wants
to
be. Its lot is the same
each
time, unthawed.
Yet
it taunts.
Dreamer
month!
Another
is just as warm,
as
firm, as close to sweat and sigh
as
I was, and this month
knows
it. This month
sits
close-lipped
and
wise before the fire.
Copyright © 2018 Jill Osier. Used with permission of the
author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.
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