Self-Portrait as February Morning, and: When I Thought I Was Dying
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Self-Portrait as February Morning
Stormy and oppressively dark. The birdsflutter where the tree branches should have leaves outby now. The daffodils refuse to budge.
You know in theory spring is coming,nearly around the corner, but for now,the cold bites at your fingertips, your face.
The deer have eaten the bottom branchesand bark off all the trees. They look despondent.There is never enough hot coffee. It's hard—
the gray of the sky, the threat of snow and ice,the frost on the grass, and waking up alone seemsan impossible quest. No one loves February,
its emptiness, the dourness of Lent and saccharineof St. Valentine, a month so short but so long,of heavy sweaters, flimsy scarves, and wet socks.
Oh, to wake up April, away from this bluster,to open the door to blossom and sun,instead of this bitter, too-thin light. [End Page 44]
When I Thought I Was Dying
It was easy to love things. Birds, the flutter of branches,my husband who always has to be right.
I thought, I will lose all of this. I hugged my cats more.I watched less television, except for comedies, which drugged
me to sleep at night. Stupid 1950s sci-fi films, especially.Maybe I loved them too. I loved poetry and wrote almost every day,
thinking, I do not have time to write. The lights would flickerand threaten outages. How like our bodies these power lines are,
reliable until they are not: eaten by rats or rammed by cars at random.You see how I thought everything was profound: my Netflix
recommendations, passing a woman on the street and smiling at each other.I ate a lot more pancakes, something I hadn't done since childhood.
I thought, maybe there will be a miracle. Maybe I will have more time.A temporary grant of extension. I will still do taxes and fill out forms
at the doctor's office. I will have time to be mad at traffic.I will stop petting random dogs. I will have time to stop
noticing when the hummingbird or deer or Steller's jay pausesto look in my eyes, that moment before. That's the thing
about having time. You miss so much. [End Page 45]
Jeannine Hall Gailey served as the second poet laureate of Redmond, Washington. She's the author of five poetry collections, including her latest, Field Guide to the End of the World, winner of the Moon City Press Book award and the Elgin award. Visit www.webbish6.com.
