Winter -- a really bad poem by Deb

Winter how do I reflect upon thee, oh killer of my joy.
You pound my house with ice cold winds, enough to freeze my toes,
Yet somehow never cold enough to kill off all my foes. (note: viruses and bacteria -- not people, except maybe car salesmen and IRS agents).


My toes, they are as cold nearly as my nose, and my nose it
runneth over because my windows must stay closed.
Resultant of our encased home, the viruses flow free
No place to escape to the outside world, so happy to rest on me.


You, oh winter, season of hell, you do this every year.
You produce this lovely environment that produces infections of the ear....
and the throat and the eyes and the sinus cavity.
Making me a grumpy Mom and writer of such bad bad poetry.



How do you accost me? Let me count the ways.
First, you cost me money, which goes a long long way
towards me never thinking of you fondly, and wanting to keep you at bay.


I purchase gloves and scarves and mittens and coats for my little knaves.
Lest not forget long underwear or sweatshirts of the color gray.
For e'er they ever outgrow them, they lose them one by one.
Then the work I once completed is now quite undone.


The heating bill -- don't force me there.
I hate you even more, when the mailman brings
The Duke energy bill to my very cold front door.


Uncomfortable? Yes, another way you accost me on this frigid day.
Wind in my face, biting my nose. Wind on my hands, fingers aglow.
Scraping my car, waiting for it to heat
adding an extra 10 minutes to my drive down the street.

Oohhh... ice... always fun when you have a to carry a well-bundled young one.
Or when your 9-year-old wears a prosthetic leg,
And believes that she can simply race across all surfaces no matter how slick
The least terrible would be to end up in a ditch.

I used to love winter, all the fun in the snow.
Then I grew up and realized the work that came in tow.
Or perhaps I moved to Cincinnati where snow is myth
And winter means little more than coldness,
with some rain and ice to mix.


So, I'll sit here plotting my move to Florida
Sneezing, coughing and knowing all along,
I'll be sick again next winter in my less-than-snug cape cod.
I'll never move to Florida, although I'd love it so,
So next year I'll be sick again and writing bad poetry
In a land of cold that has no pretty snow.





HOW LONG UNTIL SPRING??????????????