February

There is an elegant edge to the first of February.  The soft struggle of the ground trying to stay alive, clinging to emerald tints and wilted yellow buds.  Mud puddles frozen over and melting to let the last of the fattened robins sip and play.  Hollow little icicles drip over the doorways of elaborate hotels where, inside, women wrap and unwrap mink shawls around their throats, unable to predict what the skies have in store for their high-heeled shopping trips into the city.  The swell of berry bushes and the grey clouds they burst under.  The chill only a good lover can warm.  Mornings are threatened with snow squalls and smell of cinnamon rolls and sugary icing on fingertips.  Condensation captured on pale winter palms that we hold over the boiling kettle to remember the humidity of summer, and loving the need for frosted windows all the same.