And February slips slides away on snow patched ice.  Or ice patched snow. No one mourns the passing of this month. No matter the great heart slammed center tricked out in cardboard and tinfoil.  The great heart filled with chocolate and precious illusion.  The great heart we try our best to fill

but never do.

Unless we're teenagers, or like me, victims of a clinically prolonged adolescence ever bounced between hope and despair.  Makes my head hurt, this great heart business, stinks my feet, bites my nails and tangles my hair.  February.