Snow whispers of solitude,
Gritty white parcels of fluff.
Wind unveils a rattling chorus;
The branches and old leaves shout.
Birds ruffle their feathers for warmth;
Little orbs of them huddle on the line.
Who are we to dismiss the weather
And complain about the snow and wind,
And the birds huddling, all puffed up?
It’s not up to us in the heated houses,
Not ill with hypothermia and frostbite.
We should be thankful for thick sweaters,
Boots, flannel, gloves, hoods, and hats.
Can we fit a sweater on a bird?
Can we put a hat on it, only to fall off
When it flies away into the pines?
Winter murmurs its freezing goodbyes
Until the axis shifts and becomes spring.
© 2018 Valerie Hathaway