You fly in with such abruptness from the north;
And even though I think I’m watching,... I can’t see you,
But, I hear your gusts nudge the northwest windows
And your whistles blow across the chimney flue.
My old pine tree is leaning and waving rhythmically;
Truth be told, he’s trying to politely wave goodbye.
Cottonwood branches broken from the snowstorm
Now lay scattered on ground that is brown and dry.
You’ve tossed my warm woolen coattails,
You’ve tossed by shoulder-length hair,
You’ve melted the snow, reduced sculpted drifts,
What more havoc do you plan to share?