We end the month with a February poem by Kathleen Kummer. I love all the flowers that are included, how the poem touches on that moment of turning. The last two lines carry an extra weight this year.
There had been no hint that it was in the air,
no question of even imagining a haze
of green round the trees. What flowers there were
pointed to winter: hellebores, snowdrops,
a few crocuses trembling in the grass,
and the camellias in bloom, ice-maidens,
translucent, quite at home in the cold.
It was February. Coming home in the dark,
I paused on the step to the garden, held back
by the smell of the soil someone had turned
in my absence, moist, as if a god
were breathing on it to warm the earth.
Then I knew for certain that spring was coming,
that, deo volente, I’d be there.