Mr January marches across the world leaving second-look wonder in his white-footed wake...
(this is the kind of weather I love to challenge with hot chocolate and cross-country skis, but for now
I am a little unhappily housebound with a heavy head-cold:(
so I must content myself with from-the-house-shots...and hot tea
He walks in socks white-woolly
Icy kisses splice his jowls
He blusters like a bully
As he musters frigid howls
He tests best optimism
With regales of snow-sleet-hail
Fair weather feels forgotten
In the tether of his gale
He torments trees, his garment
Wrangles, tangles stark-still bark
He wails through gardens dormant
And roars through the hoary dark
He makes the maiden shiver
His fingers are deathly cold
He strakes landscapes with silver
And breaks skylines with crushed gold
He shakes the clouds; their plunder
Covers earth with downy deeps
He wakes a wanton wonder
In hearts hungry for green sweeps
While stunning us with pictures
That no earth-artist could paint
The palette of his tinctures
Fit for heaven’s fittest saint
He lavishes limp laughter
With longing and gratitude
For there will be an After
After his gust is subdued
© Janet Martin
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I hope you enjoyed your pause on this porch and thank-you for your visit!