The snow
\ncovers the shrubs
\nlike a wrinkled sheet.
\nOnly a few days to March,
\nand February will return
\nto its drawer.
\nIt is the cacti of time,
\nsterile,
\ndry,
\nthe fluffy blizzards of spring
\nhave not appeared.
\nFiddle heads coming up
\nthrough the earth
\nlike tiny swans.
\nThe dishes of crocus
\ntaken from a cabinet
\nfor a tea of dew.<\/p>\n
In the rinsed light of February,
\nI see only solitude,
\nan empty shore,
\nan invisibility
\nthat life doesn\u2019t enter.
\nMy eyes tear with cold.
\nMy heart
\nhungry for spring\u2019s tenderness.
\nThe green shoots
\nthat feed creatures
\nthat could not hibernate,
\nthat foraged in the cold,
\nand finally grew tired.
\nLooking for the end
\nof all time,
\nthe beginning of birth,
\nlike a ring
\ninside the fortress
\nof a tree,
\ncounting the years.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The snow covers the shrubs like a wrinkled sheet. Only a few days to March, and February will return to its drawer. It is the…<\/p>\n