musing on being cold.
I am waiting for birds to wing north.
It is March, neither lion nor lamb,
but low temperatures bursting forth
with icing pellets that face-slam.
Freezing wind is a battering ram
as I think of warmth and spring break.
Frozen mist locks door to jam.
A steaming mug of coffee I make,
wondering how much more I can take
as a fresh gale makes me shake.