An Acrostic
How many houses have I inhabited
Over the frigid months of Februarys?
More than memory wants to recall,
Enough to sometimes miss a few.
Some I’ll leave where they were buried.
Of the scenes I see and seek are
Frosty Februarys lost in far-flung youth.
Fleece white fields and cold web forms
Etched upon windows by Jack Frost
Bring back the barren bleakness.
Ruin seemed the theme of those days
Under the relentless slate-gray skies.
All the cheer of the Christmas season
Removed and long put away.
Yet I sometimes miss its melancholy.
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