472 and 473: The Seven Days of February: vi and vii

Ah! there it is, the cause that I looked for

for February—tho an accident

brought it by me, and I to it, wherefore,

I see now what you always should have meant:

Not, after all, for cherubs were you made,

nor for their arrows (if they, bows, possess),

and not for roses are you wont to trade,

tho men will make a penny if they press.

I caught a glimpse, when on a game night last,

with friends of mine, what you really might mean:

a batch of cookies made I for our cast—

and February smiled on the scene.

Tho not, indeed, as Eros might request,

still, Storge called it good, and bade it blest.

~~~

Then wish us more, these tidings, as we leave:

that warmth for those already close we wend,

that love we share with no apparent end,

but that the warmth might be, and be believed.

And so the soil of Eros might be

enriched by kindness and not kleptic eyes,

by adding soft threads to e’en softer ties,

and adding joy to each heart that we see.

I will remember you, February,

not as the selfish one I thought you were—

that of an ignoramus connoisseur—

but for the cheer you quietly brought me.

And I will look forward to you next year

to see what more I learn while you are here.