February In Spokane

It is February and everything
Is blurred and bleeding at the edges,
Slurred and slushy spilling over,
Muddled and muddy—
Nothing holds, nothing stays.

January was self-contained,
Framing everything
With its crisp, white corners.
Authoritative and icy—
I knew who was boss.

December held me close,
Wrapping everything so tight,
In long darkness and short light—
Soothing my fall
Into winter slumber.

Even November had conviction,
Disposing of its last leaves
With such purpose,
Thrusting its bare branches
Into a severe and pitiless sky—
Its confidence was contagious.

But now it is February and all
Oozes into itself, melting
Into every crevasse
On the bottom of my boot.
I cannot help but track it in,
And wonder if anything
Will ever be solid again.