February Sixteen

Winter,
thief of autumn’s
sigh and skip and vibrant buzz,
even fire cracks in your embrace.

At first your cold was cute
and clean.
My skate blade cut a circle in your center.
I admired your white,
tasted your gale,
celebrated
as you closed school and store…

week after month after holiday

you held a grudge against the spring;
grasping groundhog round the shadow of his
throat, you’ve lost your
chilly charm.

You need anger management therapy,
a little sun,
some time down south.

I’m sorry.

Winter, I just don’t love you
anymore.