I sat by the paint-chipped windowsill
silently watching winter slowly spill.
Dispersing, worsening
washed out by whiteness and wind.
Having just woken up
I wondered when did it begin?
Why am I inside
locked away and warm?
Where do deer and mourning doves go
to weather off the storm?
Where do squirrels go to bury their souls
when trees are stripped and bare?
Why am I inside
instead of being out there?
The need for shelter
as we skelter
to warm up our shivering skeletons.
And will this weather
get better?
I’m sure there will be a day
when it will be warm again.
So I sat by the paint-chipped windowsill.
Silently watching winter slowly spill.