January
wind, a feral motion
twisting in and
out between the days;
the days, suddenly
strange to themselves,
estrange themselves.
They turn
inward,
long fingers curling,
pale, digging into
their collars
and scarves,
to seek a warmth
not there.
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This is so true. Sometimes I find that I hate January, that, looking back, I can't remember a single thing I liked about it. It's the numbness after the highs and lows and longings and recedings of December. It's the month where winter catches up to you and begins to press down with a slow, unrelenting weight.
ReplyDeleteAlthough I have to add that recently it's been in the high 50's and low 60's here.