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