February
All day wind blows from the north.
The air is clear, everything
is amplified.
The doe watches me walk to the tree,
then leaves the back way.
I fill my basket with lemons for tea.
At the window, with pencils, paper,
I sit humming a tune, no ideas, none.
Not a whisper of return. The magnolia
has swollen at the bud.
One camellia by the stairs
has burst open.