February (An Invocation)

Let the cold
outside this door
remind you of you.

Not the name on the orange pill bottle.
Not the retired man with the practiced face.
The one with no state line in his heart.

February, winter’s last month,
leaves its mark on the pane, on the body, on the boy.

Stung cheeks, visible breath, sleeves wet at the cuffs,
front room laughter, faint smells of vodka,
the world outside made simple by whiteness and the old time of it.

You’re allowed to look back.