Mid-winter Complaining

Mid-winter and the snow is crusty

from the rain we had one warm day

a week ago, a single day,

teasing us and turning cold again,

bitterly cold and a biting wind.

The yard now is a layer of ice

we creep across from the house to the barn

and returning, cautious against our age

and our brittle bones breaking in a spill.

One misstep will send us sprawling,

crawling, cold and hurt and muttering under our breaths,

cursing the weather gods and our own reluctance to leave.

The groundhog, never wrong, reminds us,

“Six more weeks,” and the weatherman calls

for snow tonight, a foot or so, perhaps.

I can already sense the pain of sore muscles

tightening in my back and arms and shoulders,

muscles over-worked this winter, too much snow

and no place to put it,

the banks too high and getting higher.

But I keep the snow-shovel handy, near the back

door where I park it, to clear my way out,

bundling against the elements, my collar up

and my hat pulled low against the cold

and snow, wind-blown, piling up, wet and heavy.

Thinking about it, I’m kept up nights, another winter

dragging on, and anxious for it to be over,

for the days to lengthen, the calendar to spring forward

and bring back the sunshine and its warmth,

blue skies and the rich green of nature’s awakening,

re-awakening, too, my soul, my spirit

which nods off in winter’s season

ready now for spring.