Crow on a winter morning,
the eucalyptus stand in the shade,
a cold wind comes off the lake.
I walk with the hood of my jacket
tied tight,
feeling ridiculous
when I pass the optimists with
the wind to their backs.

I wear the burgundy gloves
which make me feel childlike
and think of last winter’s poems,
of seasons vs. years.

Later at my desk
my fingers are even colder,
as I sort and clean and file
the debris that has piled up
since Thanksgiving.
My knees like snow caps
exposed to the floor-length glass.

Winter has hit hard
as I had hoped it would not,
as I always hope
it won’t.