Snow Whales

(my house in this blizzard,
a mountain underwater
hurtled in the deep by millions
of flakey plankton rushing in
the swiftest current, means just
waiting for the snow whales)


February is the worst month of the whole year. Your whole body is dry and tight, engorged on red meat and chili like a swollen tick, just waiting for a trickle of sunlight, and the first tender spring vegetables. The snow and gray seem to stretch on forever, with a brief interlude of dry grass. Everything feels like a T.S Eliot poem that the world is wearing. But blood is still circulating, and hearts beat very slowly.