The poem is to be written by itself:
Like life looking for the trembling instant of luminescent lucidity;
Like lovable faces and the old lullaby ...
Like logarithms in a looking-glass of the same fable.
Like the old loom bringing us common recollections;
This February like a loop-hole in the winter`s wall
Is ready to give us the space where you paint the other seasons.
Facetious,facile fag running in the fair falters an old truth
About this famine of poetry whose fan you and me still are.
Fastidious February in a fashionable far-fetched fatigue
Ready to find fault with somebody else...
Feline February near the fence looks at the fireplace
Where feelings of glass become our every day fix.
February,flabbergast us with your flag in the flavor of hope.
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa