January Is a Bully Named Moe
January snarls his arrival.
having kicked Christmas behind him,
he insinuates himself into the gaps
between the old windows; he rattles them
for good measure and sifts the cold into
every crevice of the room.
His glowering armies move in ponderous
formations across the horizon. They have lurked
here for days, threatening to descend, to erase
even the memory of every blue sky
June ever birthed. But I will not let go.
January is a bully.
I have learned not to fight back.
Under the quilted covers are hidden
flower catalogues bursting with bloom:
hydrangea macrophylla, two kinds of scilla,
an erect and proper Echinacea, baptized “Fragrant Angel.”
January is a bully named Moe.
with luck I will outlast him, my lunch money
secret and safe in my shoe.
Eventually – when he’s finally gone –
I can battle February with one hand tied behind
my back – clutching a fistful of Lathyrus seeds.
February is short and ugly and stupid with snow.
I can handle him.