You know them well--
February's metallic days,
when thin, improbable clouds
scratch the sky like spidery cracks
in a glass bowl.
And you think,
"I'll never be warm again."
Every brick and stone
has contracted into bitterness,
a blue-gray resentment
down to the molecules.
People's eyes and noses pour forth,
either from grief or virus,
and nature is mourned;
all that once throbbed
has withered and seeded
under the impotent sun.
Mere knowledge won't do,
ripeness is beyond belief,
cracked asphalt
never could soften
and the brittle air above it
won't ever waver again.
Heat is no more than a theory.
Till it isn't.
Till each intractable problem
melts in its time, shucks off
its carapace of ice,
and the story lurches forward again.
The windows fly open,
and May's warm breath
dances through the house.
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