Soft winter has not tested us as yet;
The snow that lies in leaden lumps stays mute:
Days oscillate from dry to cold and wet;
And snowbirds’ needs from vague to strictly moot.
In pastels: pink and aqua, orange and yellow
By warm canals the condos stand ornate
Where northerners conduct themselves like pharaoh
And over cocktails glitter, silky, late.
Yet I, who stay with snow and freezing rain
And fight each drafty crevice winter long
And shake with chill and moan with frostbite’s pain
Can still the urge to sing the traveller’s song;
For in my memory sweet the river sings
And summer greens and sandals make me king.
