The Hardest of the Twelve

If April is the cruellest month, as T.S. Eliot has said,
Then January is the hardest, its nights the gloomy darkest.
Snow does ensconce us all around, and it is hard to leave the bed.
If April stands for waste, although dull roots it stirs and lilacs breeds,
This month only weaves its icy laces and forms hard burrs in snow.

January has its magic days when bright sun reflects from white.
It is a month of resolutions when we decide to bend our
Hearts toward the light—wherever we might actually find it.
But as this month has only hours left to go, something in me stirs—
My spirit. Good-by, Cold Number One. It’s Number Two tomorrow.