there is such widespread grumbling about it

you wanna wonder how winter might feel.

everyone from suede and mink to cracked

leather and musty goodwill parka

try to hurry it along and out of here.

true, spring will be green, profuse, and—tra-la—ever

a skip-a-beat goosing when bulbs sprout.

but nothing will be elemental, honest,

quiet and clean like this again…

satisfied if I can, with jays and crows,

chickadee, (flash of yellow!) grosbeak

and the grand overseer, raptor in rapturous spiral.

it is “too cold” as other seasons are “too hot.”

but beyond all that, winter has feelings too.

toronto-town grumbles against slush that truly 

has little to do with the plan:

mouths of exhaust pipes, stacks of industry, and

plenitudes of human sigh and syllable

see to that, heat the air until

the unique and precious crystal cannot survive:

“I’m melting” and turning turbid brown.

enough. always a shock when the first mouth of lavender

crocus breaches the torpid brown to sing, sing to

returning throats that sing, sing of the south,

bringing some of it back here. sing

to the lengthening days.

no one drinks sun like my eyes, let me be clear;

it’s the hustling it out of the club without 

recognizing winter is not niggardly, not

invariably harsh, but

a big spender: silence and white

pour out of those big furry pockets

and the quiet on the fields is the perfect lattice

for sleep, thought, love, song.

Jan ‘22