February Sixteen

Written for writer's cramp, but definitely from the heart.

Winter,
thief of autumn’s
sigh and skip and vibrant buzz,
even fire cracks in your embrace.

At first your cold was cute
and clean.
My skate blade cut a circle in your center.
I admired your white,
tasted your gale,
celebrated
as you closed school and store…

week after month after holiday

you held a grudge against the spring;
grasping groundhog round the shadow of his
throat, you’ve lost your
chilly charm.

You need anger management therapy,
a little sun,
some time down south.

I’m sorry.

Winter, I just don’t love you
anymore.