A Walk Around February

I have not entered this season yet, I skirt the dead and the spare, avoid the chill of its harrowing touch as I pass through the blank spaces, between all the naked stick figures where the light froze. There will be a melting, a returning of green revivals, but out here in the snow fields with the wind biting its way into my hunched being I can only summon up a breathy smoke to keep bone-cold ghosts from wailing in my ears. I am not even a walker in the wilderness, I pace just these fields not far from the warm fires of many homes, yet death lies in the gutters of cities as well as in a farmers ditch, all such howling endings are doors for ice-wolves to enter, and February leads them to scratch now at every door.