Again it’s February, and again the snow
Absorbs all colors of the sleeping planet.
And only footprints bare a patch of granite,--
The rest is white and there’s nowhere to go.
The hour and the minute hand combine
And fall in unison upon the number twelve.
I sit behind the desk, all by myself,--
The tired hands cannot complete a line.
The pallid moon bewitches and enchants...
I cannot focus on my poetry. Instead,
I think of you. And next room, in my bed,
You are asleep, and life, again, makes sense.