Frigid
As the smoke rises from the roof of the house
On a crisp, below zero winters day
It looks like a scene from a Norman Rockwell print
I can almost smell the Gingerbread bake
The gentle breeze, blows the smoke away
Yet, the ice cold air, robs me of breath
like the very razors edge of Spring is at stake
I hear her love song, call me in the wind
Winters hold, is a frigid icy death
Reminds me of a winters New England stint
Shall I remain inside, Shall I rescind?
Like a creature not stirring, like the Christmas Eve Mouse
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