it's still February,
the darkest of months
dreary mornings,
autopilot days
stuck in rewind
clouds race above
to some other place,
better than this;
intent on not taking us
walls inside
the color of
skies outside,
bleak and gray
I suffocate in rooms
with air thick
like heavy blankets
wrapped and twisted,
I am too warm,
hopeless and stagnant
suddenly this morning
a bird sang-
reminding me
it's almost March
the sky, and me,
are happier for it
Heather Reed 2005
