Making no claims to poetry, here’s a piece I started in 2009 and found again a couple weeks ago. Given 70 degree temperatures and wildfires on the Front Range earlier in the week, it’s a relief to find February can still be winter.
Still Winter
Still winter
Nothing moves except
White breath across the sky.
No body
Disturbs the silence
Of sun in stasis
Refracting fragile light.
And still
The winter comes
Crowding spring
Delaying warmth
Despite the lengthening days.
Until the equinox
Tilts northward
The forecast is the same:
Still winter
And still the cold remains.
Pearlmoonplenty 
Thanks, Kayann. It seems so important in these turbulent times to remember the times of stillness and recurrence that ground our actions and our balance.
Pattie
Sent from my iPad
That’s very nice: still winter, still firewood, still scraping, still resting.
I have never had the patience to search for just the right word. I admire poets. Thank you for a lovely description of the stillness of winter.
Thank you;)!
Sent from my iPhone
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