Some find comfort in the warmth
of a January afternoon lying on a
beach surrounded by lizards
not made of the stuff to weather
a dip in temperature or foot of snow.
Tramping through a temporary thaw,
I imagine life on the farm with
boot tracks leading to the chores
of the cold months when the work
winds down and quiet is observed.
More than the vitamin D that the sun
soaks into skin been covered in wool,
the hawk’s holler is the calming balm
that resets the mind to natural rhythm,
the tuck of down smoothing time’s lines.
Bird seed escapes out of the feeder -
gloved hands clumsy on the refill,
squirrels are happy for the slop
just as the pigs ain’t complaining of
the scraps of meats not summer’s salad.
The air is champagne chilled and bubbly
causing a nose drip and icicle fingers;
the birds come calling, feathers fluffed,
happy visiting the feeder close to home
in the still evergreen at the back of the yard.
The male cardinals sport bright red-
their breasts full and hips slim;
the woodpecker is colored demurely,
his constant tenor of beak to tree
entertaining the flutter of wings and seed.
Sand does not track into this house,
hot tea returns warm to the senses,
through the kitchen window, winter;
weak hearted souls lost to its beauty
have regrettably flown foolishly south.