-of February-

a poem by Margaret Atwood

which she’s titled: “February”
has much to do with commentary on her cat
which she refers to as “a black

fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes”.

although the thrust of the poem
has to do with rejuvenation, the cat
is convincing in how Ms Atwood describes it

and for the daily peculiarities which it brings to the table.

February takes another beating, of course, and the poet
confesses her longing for the climate's turn to Spring.

In February when the blizzards come, we hunker 

indoors organizing the food-stores we've purchased

which need no refrigeration
in the all too logical event the power goes out,
lining-up the items on the counters, forming clutches

of cans and containers in precise menu formations.

we gather jugs of water.

we check the strength of the furnace pilot lights
hunched over on our knees holding
flaming matches in the drafty basements
as we consider the possibilities
of gas explosions re-sculpting the clay of our faces.

this February, a documentary on PBS,
(what we once proudly referred to as: "Educational TV")
was telecast,— an examination of prehistoric cave dwellers
in a land which will eventually become France
and the actors portraying them were convincing enough

and I thought of how miserable it must have been
for these earlier hunter-gatherers simply to survive
the 20 or so years of their existence, particularly in winter.

February, for example.

and there was another February, when a film was broadcast
during the time before the invention of incandescent lighting,
and going about their household routines in the dark,
chill of the evening, the interior's inhabitants,

according to current optical standards, would be
clinically diagnosed today as effectively blind.