Save It For Later

I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines. - Thoreau

.

.

in his bleached, baggy, patched long johns

as another winter's morning dawns

hardly what you'd call a frigid fashionista

fickle and fatigued

frozen in time

a tired old man winter reaches down and pulls up his worn, woolen blanket of snow

not quite sure which to roll let alone go

debating about when to raise the curtain on another gelid show

he kicks at the covers but he can't seem to feel at ease

certainly not with shoveled holes in his knees

not to mention nothing but a gentle, tepid breeze

he hears a blustery howl at the window

maybe its his sister sleet

or just an overstarched sheet

perhaps his long lost brother bluster

or a thawing ice cluster

he longs for a blizzard

maybe with a side of turkey gizzard

perhaps a powerful nor' easter

he rolls over in an avalanche of snoring

dreaming that summer is boring

not needing a reason

later, he tells himself, in due season

a time when its depth will be greater

thawed remembrances of an inverted, blanche, frosty crater

as he decides to slumber a bit longer and

save it for later

Author's Note

"In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends." - Thoreau