The winter wood
is cold and wet
stacked in the back
waiting for the day
we need to burn it.

The bare branches
are heavy with
white outlines,
those cold snow
brushstrokes.

Smoke stacks
cough up that
fire and ash.

No birds or squirrels
for weeks on end,
and I haven't
seen a single friend
for a couple of weeks
maybe this weekend
I'll head in
to town
to touch base with
all those I miss.

For now
I stare out
at this
frozen wasteland
and wonder how man
ever managed to make it
during colonial winters.