February

 
February
 
Was never more cold
than this moment.
 
Everything has withered, dreams
and leaves are whirling down
from your hair.
 
No scarf can wrap
around this, there are no words
to throw around you
 
that would protect against the
cheeck-chastisising draft of
doors that are not closing,
 
the endless countryroad that
is not allowed to carry
any more snow,
 
and all these images that
rage your summerhope to pieces
like a frosty tropic storm
 
until your lips falter
into a thin line
of silence.
 
Indifference, after all,
has no shape, but only
a title:
 
February.
 
(waiting for the summer never takes longer than in the shortest month)