A rhyming poem about Louisiana's recent wintry weekend.
|Here in Shreveport winter paid a visit
this past early January weekend.
It’s not nice for us to complain, is it,
but we wanted the 30-degree days to end.
Thankfully Shreveport quickly has returned
to the mid-70s for daytime highs.
For our tulips in bloom we were concerned,
but they all still thrive, much to our surprise.
My wife and I stayed safely hunkered down inside
for the duration of this brutal winter blast.
A fire in our seldom-used fireplace did provide
to the poet inside me pleasure unsurpassed.
The fire’s reddish-orange flames danced and licked
the air; each newly added piece of wood crackled
and popped in protest at having been picked
to die in the war in which the fire was embattled.
The fire’s heat and glow soon warmed our home’s den
as my wife and I enjoyed the splendid display.
The scientist in me recalled bygone times when
fire from burning wood had been Mankind’s way
during months of winter’s coldness for survival
as he huddled forlorn in his castle or cave.
To my wife and me having a fire wasn’t vital
but was merely a pleasant memory to save.
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