I threw your keys in the water, I looked back,
They'd frozen halfway down in the ice.
They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners,
Even after the anger, it all turned silent, and
The everyday turned solitary,
So we came to February.
Here and now, I am alive. Here and now, I am rebuilding my life, rebuilding my self - and I am not alone.
First we forgot where we'd planted those bulbs last year,
Then we forgot that we'd planted at all,
Then we forgot what plants are altogether,
and I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and
The nights were long and cold and scary,
Can we live through February?
I can't help but wonder where everything went. Once I wished for you to plant me in the black and fertile earth of this eastern shore so that I might grow up in your salt sea sunshine. But we wrote up a contract of separation, and renounced our love in the cold summer of our underground sanctuary-turned-prison. And, as we turned and retired to opposite sides of an untouchable body of filthy water, our plants died of neglect - like our love. Like our love? I will never know. You didn't plant me deep enough, didn't nurture me - or perhaps I was too much work for you after all - and I remembered that I am a lady and not a flower at all, and I recalled my legs and walked back across that bridge one bright morning.
You know I think Christmas was a long red glare,
Shot up like a warning, we gave presents without cards,
And then the snow,
And then the snow came, we were always out shoveling,
And we'd drop to sleep exhausted,
Then we'd wake up, and it's snowing.
And now you've turned your ship around to come home to a house that you own, but a home that you never will. And you will come home to a yard filled with dead plants. Dead, like our love. Like our love? You will never know. And soon the snow will come, and you will miss the days we spent shoveling and laughing and loving, and I will gaze out of my heavenward window and the snow drifts below,
but I won't shovel a single snowflake.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together.
You stopped and pointed and you said, "That's a crocus,"
And I said, "What's a crocus?" and you said, "It's a flower,"
I tried to remember, but I said, "What's a flower?"
You said, "I still love you."
And I will turn, not knowing what to say. And where my tears will fall, so will grow the roses that you used to bring me. Someone else brings me roses now, and I can't help but ache in my soul for all the roses given to me by all the men who have broken my heart so clumsily. I still love you, but I look now into the eyes of a man who looks at me and sees something beautiful. And I can't help remembering how long I wondered what you saw when you looked at me; you, who always sees only flaws. I still love you? I will never know. My heart has forgotten the beat to that tune, just as I have forgotten our heartwrenchingly beautiful February. I am done remembering. I am done remembering.
The leaves were turning as we drove to the hardware store,
My new lover made me keys to the house,
And when we got home, well we just started chopping wood,
Because you never know how next year will be,
And we'll gather all our arms can carry,
I have lost to February.
What's a crocus, after all?