This Wasted Land

No, T.S., Ffff-February is the cr-cr-cruelest month, chattering
Jaw teeth out of my head, hands numbing
At joints, knuckles and tips, fumbling
Frigid at type keys.
Winter fooled us good, warming
January's end with Springtime
Thaw, awash with forgetful snow
Wet streets and paths for running ...

As I sit here in my freezing office, where the heat went dead at some point today, it is 9 degrees outside. The wind chill is somewhere around frostbite. My fingers and toes have not warmed up since marching to my car this morning in the snow. By tomorrow, we're supposed to get 6-10 more inches. But it's not supposed to be as cold. That's a relief.

I fumbled my running this weekend. A Friday night trip to Blackout Island had me under covers for most of a fine Saturday. Sunday, the temperature dropped to single digits and the wind picked up. I had a fleeting notion to go for a run, but then my windows shuddered in the gust of a 20 mph wind. I decided to take a rest day. I looked outside and saw only white.

I know this happens every year. One last cruel blow from Old Man Winter. And then white turns to brown turns to green. The chronic overcast skies will soon part for blues. This is whiskey drinking weather, friends, not a time for lacing up shoes.