Groundhog Day

This February will not usher spring, wisteria like grapes hung on their roods; more pewter shadows does the season bring. Now I've misplaced all the beatitudes to lambent grasses flocking on the mount as spring green creepers tendril up the posts, the lilac blossoms teeming like a fount of amulets to stay the latent ghosts that haunt as far as April with their rime. As Puxatawny Phil goes under ground I've six more weeks of gelid hush to mime the turgid verses of this numbing round. I rummage blessings as the winter girds, yet somehow can't remember any words.