The rush of desolate bone chilling wind
through trees stripped of autumn’s glory
brings comfort within
as the ” I think I can ” stove
fortresses the cold
in a small sheltered space
meanwhile
death itself howls
bearing its incisors
a wolf’s grin with yellowed eyes staring
How gallantly, how merrily
we find solace with warmed brew
and amiable talk
against such a sure footed and relentless enemy
we grasp common courage
and yawn at threats
from winter’s ravage

By Ken Peters, Belmont, NH