I spy with my Year of the Tiger eye

February is showing me how much it loves me with snow.

Our nation's capital is god's portable snow globe, and god is drinking too much red wine and swinging from willow trees. God is a homesick man. He lost his Mother Nature.

I can't see a thing past the wind.

I jump into steaming showers to liven the tone, craft Valentines and rough stories, writhe in a web of we'll wait to see..., watch mechanical caterpillars crank up my street.

I'm sporting stretch pants, plastic boots like road side warnings, and the pink, lacy, leg sleeves my sister made. People still find space in the blizzard to stare at my knees, and I imagine they wish they had a sister like mine.

February is a ghostly wonderland. The snow is wooing me into bed to read fat novels, to know no one will ever be the same past this snow * * *

Recently, three women moved out of my building that is being force-fed fourteen studios, and in hibernating, it occurred to me that I am now living under a collapsing, pooly roof with a dozen, grumpy men. They shovel the steps, rake the leaves, and trim the trees, then throw fits about the Benjamins and rental agencies.

Shirtless and rotten-mouthed, they post notes about association elections and biological hazards on the bulletin board in the middle of the night.

They claw at my sleep.

Their form of hovering is nitpicking my peace. I want to cross-stitch a Home Sweet Home for them, adorn the entryway with pineapple charms, exorcise their macho fear and hyper-social tendencies.

Though, it seems in the heart of the heart of the heart of my long-winded yet merry, gestating hearts-

I am plum due to leave.