Forced in February

For years I found little cause to celebrate in February.  But the gullibility of forsythia changed all that.

Admittedly February is bleak.  By the time it arrives, winter has outworn its welcome.  The new fall wardrobe you looked forward to wearing so eagerly last August has acquired a definite lived-in look, and is now comparable to the green sweater you've owned since you were sixteen.  The idea of making another snowman palls, the heating bills send shivers down your spine, and the thought of getting the car started makes your blood run cold.

And for me February brought an additional problem.  My toes would stop talking to me.  They'd withdraw into a stiff, frozen silence and ignore my every effort at communication.  Now I esteem my toes as critics: I try out all my verse on them.  If they wriggle rhythmically, I know the meter is right.  Without them I lose confidence.

The particular February that my problem ended, I had tried desperately to reestablish contact.  I'd even brought into the house some forsythia sprigs, hoping they'd set an example.  After three weeks of brainwashing, I'd persuaded them that room temperature could replace spring.  Unfortunately it was more than I could do for my toes.  Like so many of the downtrodden they're natural cynics, and the blossoming forsythia warmed only my heart.

And yet those sprigs helped solve my problem anyway.  Shortly after they'd burst into gold, a friend dropped in unexpectedly.  It was her birthday, I discovered, and I cheerfully offered her the forsythia as a present.  I even gave her some lines I'd written about them‑-a bit of hasty verse, scansion uncertain.

For some reason the gift just delighted her.  So pleased was she that she knit me two pairs of warm, woolly sox for my own birthday, months later.  And with those on my feet and my feet on the heat register, I can persuade from my toes a faint pulse, suitable for determining meter.  All I need now is inspiration.