My arms get cold,
In February air.
Please don't lose hold of me, out there.
And I know you're near me.
I know you understand.
Say that you're with me.
Say you know my face like the back of your hands.
February Air by Lights
"Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;
No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,
And willow stems grow daily red and bright.
These are days when ancients held a rite
Of expiation for the old year's ill,
And prayer to purify the new year's will."
Helen Hunt Jackson, A Calendar of Sonnet's: February