The fat squirrels have surrendered.
Nuts, I say: they had no other course.
The chickadees complain until they’re hoarse.
I feel for them as though they had been rendered,
Or would if I were nature’s friend;
But I’ve made other, safer plans for fall.
I shall not be at home when ill winds call.
Spring is the goal here; winter is the end.
The trees are sure they will awake.
The frozen grass has done it all before.
Clematis clings to hopes there will be more.
But they're all botany. There's no mistake.
No cyclic show for me; but, oh,
I think of warmth and someone whom I knew,
Someone who spoke in cadences, as you
Burst with excitement at the sight of snow.
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