White frost coats the blear eyelid of my car.
Piercing cold stings the larder of my lungs.
I’m happy it’s really ripe pumpkin time.
My physique has not yet accepted frost
as my brain wants to reject icicles.
All trees, shrubs, and mushrooms agree with me,
even small potatoes, beets, and carrots
piling up in my kitchen storage bin.
Not enough trees felled, not enough wood split.
Time to get out of muddling second gear:
haul out winter coats, thermal socks, and gloves.
Time to line drafty windows with soft felt.
Winter demands both wit and bold courage—
Father Frost is famous for his laughter….