I am not a fan of the cold or snow and tend resemble an angry potato after all the layers that don’t even do their job. I don’t like it when just being outside makes my face hurt. Thus, of course, I’ve only ever lived in the north.

I am not the bear that huddles
humphs and hides, idle wild
‘neath cracked earth
nor earth itself,
pierced with roots and
starched with snow
weighed with dormant nature, no
I am not the leafless tree,
stripped to wind’s temeritous
filthy cradle
‘tween the frigid rock and sky
What beast am I, I say, to slumber
stupored, wrapped in dirt or dreams

None at all, my thumbs decree
and open a window to pointless winter

Dec 2013