Blow old North wind,
Your icy breath is a knife,
Storms have twinned,
Roads bisected by slushy ruts.

Sturdy New England folk
Might be down in the mouth;
Monotonous gray skies invoke
A temptation to head South.

Forty days to the solstice.
The sun is headed this way,
Eventual defeat to cold paralysis.
So we will wait it out, come what may.

Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham