At solstice now we face the heart of winter,
even though cold days are growing long,
we cannot help but stoke the fires and shiver
and know it will be months before birds’ song.
The light of day grows long and that’s a comfort:
it means the sun must surely bring the summer,
and with it come bare feet, black flies and sunburn,
that make me think that warmth can be a bummer.
Cold comfort to hate summer in the cold;
and gnash my teeth and think of all that’s wrong
with skimpy clothes and sunny skin and gold,
and shivering in the rain to sing a song.
So what the heck if we live in a land of ice:
I’m glad that I’m alive, and ice is nice.
