February Snow

I am wishing, 
feel it pending
would appreciate
the blanketing effect,
surrounding comfort,
the all quiet of it,
but my heart is ripping,
knuckles gripping,
then fisted against
what's dead in my chest,
and he keeps calling,
saying this time
will be different,
but I'm not
up for the challenge,
can't trust myself
to know better
from the worst,
wishing I could go
outside now
and smell snow
breathing in sky,
but I fear
this kind of freedom,
afraid I'll exhale
a sky-ripping scream,
which would scare
even the snow,
pinking it up
for miles,
blood-curdled
instead of
snow white,
chameleon'd by
such acute pain,
so much so,
that even
after time,
a good thaw
and ample sun,
the grass
will come up pink,
daffodils too,
the earth unripe,
the color
of a wound
that hasn't
taken proper
time to heal,
so tonight
I must stay in,
February snow
without,
for the time
it takes
to stitch up
my wounds.