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.