unfurl

february tastes like parsnips.

your tired gray body says the days

are too long, too dark, too full

of business. 

          the slump and roll

of shoulders, the slow fall 

forward through each evening 

towards the arms of sleep;

the drag of feet; the stale smell

of defeat that clings like grease

to your dinner plate.

all these signs of the lateness of things.

all these hints that the spring

is overdue.

your lips are chapped. your skin

itches and flakes away.

your hair rises electric around your head,

a halo for the patron saint of 

all that can be endured. you are

bigger on the inside

than you are on the outside.

you are ready to emerge.

curled tight at night: fiddleheads

and ferns asleep in forest beds

arms wrapped around yourself

knees drawn tight to keep the chill

away from your heart, your soft

and loving stomach, away from the seeds

you carry inside you:

you wait.

one day soon march will arrive

smelling of iris and spotted lily, tasting

of garlic mustard and leaf rot.

you will unfurl, embrace the world;

arch your back and smile to feel

the sunshine again.

you will remember

that you are 

          real.