Waking Up

Here in the palm of February I can taste the whip of late March and the cruel incoming kiss of April. Somehow I'm waking up before the snows have blown off my cave ledge. Whatever mechanism drives the body's perambulations about the globe is giving notes to the backseat driver in my mind. There is a flurry of wings, a scent of color, and the uncurling of heart, unmindful of joints, injuries, or any calendar-including the Mayan. I say to hell with the apocalypse, lets get on with the morning sacrifice and burn myself down to the sooty nub and walk away.