February flows its reptile's blood
along the scars of my alluvial plains,
its forked tongue tastes for the lie
of Spring now in the snowdrop
whose white skirt has been threaded
through the green needle of a stem,
as the dread that resurfaces -
the bones of it spear
the hardened soil of my head,
and once again, I am reminded
that it is not easy to change.
It exposes the dearth of will and
slithered cold until I am frozen dumb,
until this stillness is later betrayed, itself,
in the bites of my own storms:
these ineffectual hisses, when I reveal
the vulnerability of my scaled underbelly,
and that I have transformed
only into a stubborn vessel of February,
that will borrow and borrow, as it retreats,
from the warmer promises of tomorrow.
Image from pixabay.