Oh, those little men,
stomping about.
Ranting! Raving!
Poor persecuted poppets
lacking conscience and self-control.
“No! No! No!”
“Mine! Mine! Mine!”
Mothers roll their eyes,
send intractable toddlers
back to bed.
I’m chilled to the bone.
I wish for a wood stove:
that crackle and flash,
heat that sinks in deep,
defines cozy comfort,
makes me want to sleep.
I can hear my mother,
If you’re cold, put on a sweater!
I want a wood stove:
the summer scent on logs,
I want
warm feet on a hassock,
hot cup of tea,
well-written mystery.
Fine, Mother.
I’ll get a sweater, too.
If I refuse to wear my boots,
choose a light jacket instead of that coat,
keep my feet on gravel, ignore snow piles,
can I force winter to go?
Beguile spring with my wiles?
Periwinkle sky
In the eaves trough tinkle the trickles
of melting snow.
Hope for spring
burst by tomorrow’s
forecast.
Each day I arrive here
Look around
and notice it feels less like home.
Remember laughter,
feel their dreaming,
it’s all still here,
but where are my desires leading?
Could this all be coming to a close?
Are talent, skills, and luck
coalescing into
something new?
The lake is gone
The sky is gone
The ground is gone
The world has faded into monochrome
I weary of winter.