At February's Door

Outside,
the amian huffs hard,
rocks the yawning leaves of banana trees.
The curtains I have tied again and again,
again and again unfold.
The calendar sheds the days before March
as this consoling cold departs.

In time,
the siniguelas undresses its bestida
and begins its long wait
for its first bud.

Beside its roots,
blades of grass stay still
as tiagëw crawls
on parched land,
on the expanding wall of the house,
on the scalding jalousie,
on my sweat-slicked skin waiting
for yours
until the cold returns.