Florida winters are not so keen.
Walking the beaches, I keep seein’
"my kids" or at least their dead ringers.
Can’t say I miss wet, sticky fingers,
cold shoulders, icy stares from my teens.
It’s warm hugs I miss, hugs that linger.
I can’t wait to get back home to Maine
and be welcomed by arms unrestrained.
Her weather left to God’s good graces;
Maine is not the coldest of places.
Of her stark wind and ice I’ll complain,
but she holds the warmest embraces.