February wakes up early
and forgets its shoes.
It tiptoes across the calendar
in mismatched socks of drizzle and sun.

The days are small animals,
skittering out from under the bed,
blinking at the sudden light.

Clouds practice new shapes:
a teapot, a startled goose,
something that might be a dragon
if you squint with conviction.

Rain falls in polite applause,
as if congratulating the pavement
for simply existing.

The moon keeps trying on outfits:
crescent, half, nearly full;
a celestial fashion show
with no audience but the tides.

Even the wind seems giddy,
running laps around chimneys,
whispering half-formed jokes
it never quite finishes.

February isn’t serious.
It’s a pocket-sized month
with a secret grin,
a brief, bright wobble
in the machinery of the year.