This poem speaks to this time of year… and perhaps to what is going on in Washington. As I write this, hail is raining down outside preventing the pruning and tree-felling that normally happens in February. These are unusual times we live in.
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Old Wolf Winter prowls around the corner of our house,
taps its paws on the windowpanes:
Let me in, let me in.
Its frosted fur quivers as it bangs our shutters shut, whistles through the cracks
in the door and shivers down my neck:
Let me in, let me in.
I add another log to my fire
glad that my house is built of stone, that
the door has a thick bolt to keep it from being blown open.
Out my window, Wolf Winter’s chilly breath sends snowflakes into flight
every which way like frightened children:
Let me in, let me in.
Now Old Wolf howls down the chimney and fills the room
with smoke that stings my eyes:
Let me in, let me in.
I add another log to my fire
and fill a pot of water
for soup.
Olivia's Journal 