I sit down to write a poem that is not about Winter. Why honor the season that sends me indoors morning and evening? But Winter will not be ignored, calling to me, taunting me with gusty winds howling through naked, entangled branches of sleeping trees. Winter has driven songbirds away. The laughter of children can be heard only briefly, as bulky bundles of little coats and hats waddle from apartment to car and from car to apartment. Winter has even transformed my neighbor's cat into a homebody. I wish I could have written a poem that is not about Winter.
by Thomas Wigington