From my comfortable retreat
I glare out at the daring white swirls,
that dance past my windowsill.
I detest the growing glaciers,
that loiter on my roof.
I shiver in the presence of,
that harsh frost bite that chills my world.
But most of all I loathe that naked oak
standing tall within my yard,
dead asleep from winter’s grasp.
Yet despite it all, I imagine that it dreams
of a warm August breeze, of a kiss of June’s sun
of April’s gentle showers, and the blessed greens of May.
So as I lounge in my chair, encased in blankets
I close my eyes and I see
a bright sun above me,
I feel green grass beneath my feet
I dream of summer.