Winter has parked in our driveway.
The heater no longer smells of warm dust.
Windows are cold to the touch,
and the thaw could be ice-ages away.
But when I looked up from my desk
the sky looked back through bare and frozen branches.
It winked and said, "You better start taking some chances,
young man. Make use of the time that is left,
because you are not so young anymore,
as to await invitations from a balmy spring night;
to act upon destiny with dalliance of mind
is a luxury you cannot afford."
So I'm answering back to the niggling sky
with a poem of loose and lucid form,
because I've given up on my fingers getting warm
before I sit down to type.
I'm answering back for the sake of my health,
dear sky, but you're not so young yourself.