The February rays
are subtle dyes
with bright ephemeral ways,

with quick goodbyes.
And January knows,
through icy eyes,

what constellations rose
from glacial seas
and how December's clothes

put on the freeze.
We celebrate these days
like those who please

to sing their easy praise
of Junes and Mays.

Our mission is to raise
the dead. Who dies
again, the balance weighs,

while someone buys
and sells and counts the noes
and tallies ayes,

arranging tiers and rows
of phantoms. Seize
this moment to disclose

the mind that frees.
Pardon the blinking daze
and the dull pleas,

the damaged ghost who prays
in heaven's maze.