The north wind leans against the pines,
shouldering them away from
the snow squalls while it shoves me
back inside, hiding from
the 25 minuses it pushes, too.
It’s the inevitable of winter
here in the upper right corner
of your screen.
Sun swears it’s the same
that cozies the bottom margin
of the Land of the Free, but that’s
just more election-year politicking.
“You can trust me
for all your warming needs,” he promises.
It’s so cold, even windblown weeds
shiver, some of their leaves jumping off
and heading south, where folks say
the plusses outweigh these minuses.
I don’t think I could live with myself,
though, where the natives wear parkas
when it’s 50.