Just The Last Bit Of February Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Again- its snowing in May,
And all the flowers are down below
Way beneath the darkening keen of the
Mountain’s knees.
She hasn’t dressed up for so very long,
Not even when he made his first movie at
Twenty-something
In a little town in Greece-
She didn’t take herself out of the pittance of
Unpublishable plays- So anyway,
They are waiting like shrinking violets to
See if they’ll be going back to school,
Plucked so gently for a lover’s bouquet,
To take on a bicycle ride on their last sunny day
To swoon before her eyes like comely sailors
Out on leave, petals spreading with the same
Concentricity of anything homemade, more
Delicate than anything you could buy at the supermarket:
But that is how it is
And I wish I could take them all up on a fieldtrip
To her eyes- But I don’t go out anymore to lounge
Upon the honey-suckle gravity of her stony bosom
With the same hopeful molasses of summer flies,
To masturbate up inside of naked trees:
I hardly even write anymore, because for all the flowers
- There’s really only elk down there
Right now, in a bugling colony that can see its own
Breath; and its now even yet May,
Just the last bit of February- Though not really,
And still the snow is falling,
And all the flowers are but sleeping.