A heavy hand of winter
weighs on us today
a hoary wind lamenting
would blow us all away.
But here I sit in fuzzy robe
warm if not exotic
contemplating verb and noun
how utterly Quixotic.
Is it all inconsequential
or is it something more?
Should I care, or should I shrug?
The wind shrills “You’re a bore!”
Yet here’s my motley garden
leftover Valentine reds
my glorious amaryllis
with quadruple flaming heads.
Their warmth declares a battle
‘gainst dark and cold without.
I’m stuck between the forces
of will and writer’s doubt.
Connections