February 9th again, and once again
I lose the baby,
a fog of nose and arms and legs—
not sea-blue, but blood-red,
full of volcanic beginning. Ending
in February: bark-littered snow,
A split-stripped weeping willow creaks.
Once it seemed I could hold
what was needed to swaddle nothing
into something—something forged,
something skeletal. Now,
receiving blankets, woven flannel, are folded.
I’ve stacked them,
and they haven’t moved in years.
The icicles hanging from my eaves
lengthen with each drip. Droplet. Pearl.
I’m certain they are dangerous.
I’m certain they could pierce me.
I’m certain that it’s prudent I remove them.
But, their beauty is astounding:
pure winter dew pulled from foggy February air
leaving nothing but a great hush.