by Kevin T McEneaney
When the brittle crunch of ice underfoot
rings in your ear on a winter morning
as a hawk sits majestically in tree,
one knows midwinter freeze is serious
for cheeks, loins, ears, head, imagination.
That still hawk may be an expert on it.
Winter is the season of the skeptic,
the teapot, hat, glove, coffee, and carrots.
Also, anxiety about wood pile
diminishing daily under gray skies.
A winter nap will erase many chills—
one awakes with feeling of missing naught.
Don’t bother to check the temperature.
To expect the hawk to fly is too much.
