Closer to home, I might scoff
'Mid 50's? In January?'
And I do miss it. I miss the white
Silence, the roof-less feeling
The soft puffs of falling snow.
Winters here are full of leafy trees
They arch like ceilings over shocks
Of young grass. They form a wide hall
Whatever hides deep in this room
I cannot see. I might mistake
This season for Spring, might expect
(As I have done before)
That hidden presence to bound
Out to me open-armed, grinning.
Instead, it leans into the background
The carpet of grass beckons in green
For me to enter