April 29th

 

Call me odd but I do love Winter.  

I love it and, truth be told, every spring I am a little sad to see it end.

 

Here in the high north I love its breadth: those dark mornings now five months past,

Sitting by the crackling stove sipping coffee – ah, no rush,

                 quarter to seven and still three hours ‘til sunrise.

And its depth: those coldest days, the days we just stayed close to home,

Cancelling work, splitting wood, gathering spruce tips for the dogs’ houses,

                their barks an icy fog at forty-five below.

 

And now at last I love its sloppy sunlit finish:

Working all day in shirtsleeves, bare-handed for the first time since September,

Swinging a big hammer

In time

                to the music of the rushing creek and the robin’s song.