First day of February,
and in the far corner of the yard
the Adirondack chair,
blown over by the wind at Christmas,
is still on its back,
the snow too deep for me
to traipse out and right it,
the ice too sheer
to risk slamming these old bones
to the ground.

In April
I will walk out
across the warming grass,
and right the chair
as if there had never been anything
to stop me in the first place,
listening for the buzz of hummingbirds
which reminds me of how fast
things are capable of moving.
~John Stanizzi “Ascension”

I want to believe we’ve already had our winter and now it’s done. Turning the calendar to February, I hope we’ll begin a gradual warming trend to spring.

For a few days in January, I had the constant challenge of finding safe footing when surfaces were snow and ice-covered; I certainly didn’t want to add to the burden of the local orthopedists who were busy putting together broken arms and legs and dislocated joints from too many unscheduled landings.

Despite what the calendar says, sometimes winter is never quite done with us. I know in my head that winter is not forever — February will wrap up its short stay of 29 days and once again I will move about with ease without worrying about iced-over frosty walkways. But my heart is not so easily convinced as I become more risk-averse, worrying about fractures.

So my heart and head and aging bones need reminding:
Those who traipse on slick surfaces will always risk being broken.
Those who have fallen will be righted and put together again.
Those who suffer regret are forgiven
even when pain is not easily forgotten.
And time moves quickly on,
despite our efforts to hold on to now;
my old bones and tender heart are healed when and if
I still can be of use to others.