on a night in february

on a poor night when little is found
outside of the chest and head,
the little morsels do not give their fill.
when you are tired of a long day
that did not hold all that much–
you light a few candles
on top of the piano’s dancing.
but they are only speakers–
no one to play for you tonight,
or any night in recent memory.
speakers will do;
you can buy that sort of companionship.

your eyes burn red from the smoke,
and it’s harder now to keep them open,
holding up the night with great stamina.
for you cannot see what isn’t there–
in the light.
but if all is blind to one and another,
then what is and what isn’t
is just a matter of hope and luck.
and the days will fall quickly,
striving ahead toward the greater unknown–
for sometimes life isn’t enough in its offerings,
and yet we delay each new day with long nights.

do not care for the why.
do not look searchingly in the dark night.
let the time go
and do not hold it so close.
is this how life passes us by?
without a sense of what it’s all going to?
each day is an offering reluctantly given,
for who’s to say that tomorrow
will be any more generous?
while hope becomes a wish
and love a migrated bird
in this long cold winter.
rub your hands together–
and try not to spend too much time
watching the skies.