Winter often holds us
in a grip of ice and iron winds
We, like bits of paper,
are swept across the prairie
looking for a spot of comfort
warmth by our fires now tamed

The soil frozen hard
captive much like us
endure, we think,
for spring is coming
the calendar clicks the days
as we gaze from frosted windows
holding cups of comfort

Bits of snow
bits of ice
the wind so lonesome blows
untapped, except to chill us
through the day it goes
across our country
and out to sea
day after day it comes

Our cars shudder on the freeway
the trucks are tossed aside
and yet it blows

Maybe there are cables
we cannot see or sense
and the wind is towing springtime
from far away to present
the fresh green grass, the flowers
the trees with buds and leaves
the lushest clouds from heaven
so white and pure soft

I can dream of springtime surely
I have seen two thirds a century now
and know it’s coming, coming
But today, toes and fingers aching
nose of brightest red
I’m bundled, leaning
against the wind and cold
dulled, but going
working, but slowly
“Hold on, to the plow!”


Lin 2/08