The grey skies are wet sails full of ice and wet.
Ravens swing low over the garden, inviting me to join their frolic.
Trees are reduced to coat racks.
By early afternoon the sun is tired and weary.
It must be difficult to bring warmth when all around is chilled to the bone.
Inside the house the floor's chill sucks the comfort away.
Now and again, I hear the raven's invitation, and again.
If I were a better friend, I would join them.
The bathroom cleaning can wait. Dinner can be late.
Flying is the order of the day, at least that's what the ravens say.
Cold hands tie me down with rotten shoelaces.
Gritty snow slips inside my boots, leaving me colder and wetter.
One last look to the west and the final sliver of sun snuffs out,
Leaving nothing to hold back the cold wind.
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