Before February Slips Out - A Little Poetry

Paiute Late Winter Song 

Loud are the thunder drums in the tents of the mountains

Oh long, long

Have we eaten chia seeds

and dried deer's flesh of the summer killing.

We are tired of our huts

and the smoky smell of our clothing.

We are sick for the desire of the sun

And the grass on the mountain.

(This poem chosen because we had thunder here last night, not close and sharp, but loud enough. And rain. It was still raining when I got up this morning.)

A Calendar of Sonnet's: February

Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;

And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;

No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,

And willow sterns grow daily red and bright.

These are days when ancients held a rite

Of expiation for the old year's ill,

And prayer to purify the new year's will.

(By Helen Hunt Jackson, one of my favorite authors.)

And lastly, because today is the anniversary of his birth --

Afternoon In February By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

The day is ending, 

The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

Soon spring will be here. The peepers will be calling and violets will be blooming.  And I will be grateful for my 79th spring. And who knows what else? All the wild weather fluctuations have me wondering what we may be in for next. 

The sunset photo is one I took Saturday evening. It was the clouds.