There is a quiet to winter, like no other season.
Surely summer is the loudest but
Here, here in this intimate seclusion by the fire,
I am alone with my silent words.
An anxiousness builds by the day
For movement, for company,
For contact with nature which
Herself has been off-putting
In her stoic reserve.
Leafless branches of trees that
Appear blacker and soldier-like,
Of woods a violent echo of brown
Crisp leaves underfoot
With barely a chirp from the birds
Or a scurrying
Of the squirrels in chase.
The landscape is cast in shadowed
Shades of stone, ash, and coal
That makes the eye thirst for color
Color vibrant as the strawberries
Of April, the forsythia in yellow explosion.
Oh for the erotic swarming of wings
And song from birds and insects.
I wish I had the strength to push
Winter aside and shame it for its relentless insistence.
To put this beast in a corner of punishment
Where it might plot its next snow.
Like a bothersome quarrel,
I’ll be the first to admit futility
And snatch my bouquet of daffodils
As a prize and set them in a vase
Where they can speak to me of all things spring-like
While the fire crackles and hisses,
And I sit waiting for the greening
Of the world.