Winter comes—a snow globe celebration
flipping her skirts in the wind
teases with gusts at turns in the road
winks a million diamonds from plump satin cushions
paints moon-blue nights
of cedar boughs wrapped in ermine.
She wakes the morning
with the arthritis whine of engines
burr of snow blowers
rhythmic scrape of shovels
her afternoons echo with giggles and shrieks
of angels and snowmen.
 
Winter stays with winds of moaning
blizzards of banging, knocking, sometimes pulling
the plug on the lights
while we grope for flashlights
candles, sleeping bags, and comforters.
She lingers with the smell
of wood-fire smoke
and fresh stiff laundry
on wooden driers
pulled from the frozen porch.
She sings the swish of blades on ice
the crash of the puck against the boards
the cheers of toboggan hill kids
on a snow day.
 
 Winter leaves reluctantly
in icicle drips and shrinking snowbanks
that rot in the sun's
strengthening warmth, lengthening stare.
Even her May tantrum can't keep
hairy crocus from peering
green-speared, purple and patient
through a crystal hole.
Water trickles in rivulets
below cellophane ice.
Across frost-furred fields
a meadowlark's song is obbligato
counterpoint to choirs of crows and robins
serenading the sunrise.

 
© by Violet Nesdoly.
Used here with permission.