Februarys Child
Februarys child is beguiled towards the end of a moths flight
into these shadows of tepid night it alights towards the light
and second guesses where it will land in farraginous stand
bland against odds amongst blades swaying in fertile sand
in a rapture that escapes the grapes of wrath mouths agape
at the sight of crepe paper hearts in an indiscriminate shape
then it molds itself instantly to the form wetted by the storm
blown by the winds of fate once considered to be the norm
I am not so bold to believe the magic of snow is in its cold
nor in bid for righteousness sold in an ancient story untold
that seems white only because it matches colors left to right
shifted purposely wound tight by the artists brush and sight
it seems easier to line them up on walls of a universal black
than it is to stack them upon the other blindly without slack
brothers and sisters varied cousins and the rest tied by blood
as Noah’s ark waiting for the rising flood idling fast in the mud
connected closely by the bonds frozen in this cold months air
that February provides there to any of us as if we should care
for we are its children and our history resides on a sacred hill
that we feign to be ill and take a pill for health but sicker still
it is not in destiny that we improve our lot for tomorrows gain
nor shall it be that sane if time proves what we do all in vain
Februarys child is at the door growing impatient to the core
we pace the floor knowing love can not live here any more
© 2011 Amor Sabor
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