February
by Margaret Carter
We drive in silence under shifting skies—
distended, leaden clouds on one horizon,
a white sun pinned to a blue banner on
the other. Passing mustard fields waist-high,
the flowers nodding in the wind, we stop
the car and part the meadow with our arms,
like swimming breaststroke through a placid lake.
You place a blanket on the ground, and mud
seeps through the fabric with our weight. I don’t
expect a ray of lightning, or a fire,
but there’s your face lighted by all this yellow.
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