Oh February, you are
Frankenstein’s lonely monster
a wretched creature
escaping to Arctic sanctuary
you made your way through the snow
and stopped
and stopped
and stopped to wonder
why
you are the shortest month
I pity your fate, how
Prometheus stole the
enchanted embers of gold
from December’s fire,
and plunged them into the icy
fluff of January’s wayward drift,
then stuffed the remains into you, February
you who are empty
of love,
and wretched creatures
who are empty of love
need love even more so