February’s Child

© Ginny Brannan 2016

The gelid crystals slip slowly down

to coat the tattered shrouds

of yesterday’s snowfall,

too fast now soiling on frozen ground

The crisp night air calls my name—

I inhale like an addict needing a fix

and exhale the staleness and weight of this day.

December is darkness;

January holds sway to darker day

her light always just below the horizon;

but February...February brings shift and promise

I am February’s child—

   no stranger to adversity

garnering my strength in

the luster of her lengthening days,

holding onto renewal and hope

that scopes more sharply now,

bringing truth and clarity to

   this ever-aging line of sight

...yes, I am February’s child,

    ever reaching for the light.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

A Turn of Light

I’m really not as old as you perceive,

it’s turn of light that alters your impression.

How strange that we should count our age in years,

from the very moment that we’re birthed;

or maybe clock starts ticking at conception.

Perhaps it is a matter of perception:

how we view our lives from inside out.

While Time, that ticking Master of Deception

plays puppeteer without discrimination,

and in the view of mirror’s sad reflection

an older face stares out in disbelief.

In my mind I’m thirty-five years old—

some twenty-five more added for good measure;

more savvy than that early, carefree youth

and cognizant from years of introspection

that each one ages different, underneath.

There’s no deflecting natural progression—

each wrinkle gained and every single crease;

we overlook each line and imperfection

discerning life with youthful affirmation

until the moment that this heart should cease.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Google Images: Used on multiple sites and articles.

Gauging Spring