Ghost of February

by JB Taylor, USA

Snow clouds pump overhead, turgid mix of low nimbus 
in serious grays     ash     slate     pewter hues.
Shadows somersault in the layers.

Wind rolls over dormant fields, long ago cleared for crops,
howls as it circles the farmhouse. Howls—yes, howls 
like a wolf iced in pelted snow.

Blizzard days. Back door blocked by a moguled slope
as if fairy skiers have slalomed a mountain.
The world     frosted.

Panic. The road choked by snow and a baby coming or
a grandmother rasping with pneumonia. 
Help     a world of white away.

Still snow into March after the groundhog sees his shadow
on that one sunshine day. Legend, superstition
so often turns to truth.

But that was February     before weather mocked the calendar. 
Now the groundhog doesn’t bother to leave his burrow. 
Though snow clouds sometimes roam the sky, blizzard 

is a rare-heard word. Jack Frost no longer paints wings 
on window panes. Daffodils bloom     the redbud bursts
and February is often spring. 

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