Month of Poetry, Day 5

F*cking winter, how sick I am of you.

I'm sick to death of your filthy roadside snowbanks,
encrusted with sand and salt and exhaust particles
and, probably, dead cats.

Sick, also am I of the morning rush, in search
of dry snow boots, snowpants, coats, matching mittens or gloves
and for warm winter hats.

I am tired, tired, tired of cabbage and
beets, yams, and potatoes grown flaccid in the cellar
growing out reaching arms.

Except on nights when C throws another log in
the stove, and I wake, kicking off blankets, I fear I'll
never again be warm.

As much as I am fed up with your snow and ice,
Spinning my wheels in deep snow in the unplowed driveway
Where I'm once again stuck,

My patience begins to grow even more thin with
the harbinger of your waning days (we can but hope)--
muddy, slippery muck.

It is now time to go, you have stayed your piece,
outworn your welcome, let me get your hat, help you pack,
go on now, shoo, shoo, shoo,

F*cking winter, time to go; we are all sick and tired of you.