The Madness of December
Before the lovely heat of an old stove,
a recluse sat; outside, a whining wind
had now begun to bluster as it wove
itself among the trees. Undisciplined,
it ripped remaining leaves from every limb
which trembled helplessly along its path.
It twisted through the woods with wicked vim,
upturned soft, quiet snowfall in its wrath,
unfurled snow’s swirling flecks upon a pond
of porcelain nearby a little shack
wherein one warmed himself as morning dawned.
As wind blew on, the grizzled lumberjack
sat whistling to its icy tone. . . . steadfast.
The madness of December cannot last.
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