February (my grandmother)

[Chessgirl]

Another of my grandmothers poems, called February.

February, a month still bruised by winters grip,
Is blue, gray, and purple.
Skeleton trees, tall, lank shadows,
Sway to a minor key.

Wind pipes a note. Branches start to dance
Moving with wild abandon
A chill creeps in. Lights dim
A snow ballet begins

Snowflakes swirl down in full white skirts
Covering the cold scarred ground
Silence piles up in soft, muffled heaps,
But my thoughts are not of winter.

Day as icy and wind as sharp
But in my heart is a coal of joy
It’s glowing there by the spirits power
No winter storm can chill.