YESTERDAY
The gods of winter rose
against the fragile spring,
roared and raged in angst,
spat ice on everything.
The lilac buds all shivered,
the ducks could barely quack;
spring appeared forsaken,
winter had come back.
But winter gods, those bullies,
with eyes so cold and shifty,
know their days are numbered:
today it will be 50!
It seemed to me
miscalculation,
a frozen
discombobulation:
expecting spring
he here alighted
but found a landscape
winter-blighted.
With frosted beak
and bluebird fluff,
he groused (I heard him),
“Phoo! Enough!”
It’s a cold grey sky,
wintry overhead,
a rowdy autumn wind
has left me just a shred,
so what do I do
without my coat of red?
I hold out all my arms
and wear some birds instead.
Skiing, sledding, luge,
are known as Winter Games
others not so huge
are known by different names
appreciably
less bold
but unarguably
less cold.
Cold is a lonely thing
a childless park
a street frozen-rutted
silent, stark.
Hard world
for tiny chickadee
hopping zig-zags
in empty tree
twig to twig
at life’s behest
lone Galahad
in Grail’s quest.
At end of bitter day
the wind blows black
staining
like berry ooze
the air.
Crystal-wrapped,
contorted, brittle,
a small tree
shivering
bows its
winter’d head,
bald and bare.
Beyond,
in waffling line,
yellowed
warmth of homelight
teases —
welcoming
warning
flare.
Winter is icumen in
lhude sing the flue
bloweth snows
and freezeth nose
sing the flue!
Crimson leaf doth nobly hold
but arresteth not the season;
cometh chapstick, cometh cold,
pulleth I my fleece on.
A little bit of cold
a crackle in the air
a moaning wind’s complaint.
A year that’s getting old
a burrowed pied-a-terre
a little bit of paint.
The creekside frou-frou
in the park
disdains the looming cold,
regally ruffled
in yellowing green
with brooch of saffron gold.
