FEBRUARY
ALL the rhythms of life are slow
All the streams are choked with snow,
Evening skies are pale,
The very stars are still,
On the long slope of the hill
Woodsmoke weaves a pattern frail.
No cloak, no pretense here;
The earth is clean as a naked spear,
Beauty is stripped bare;
But she will stoop as winter lingers
To pluck arbutus with expectant fingers,
And weave the cold sweet blossoms in her hair.