I sit inside,
Outdoors is cold.
The clouds roll by and begin to fold.
I lean my head against the window,
Waiting for warmth like a great thick a pillow.
In my yard,
A small cypress lies crippled.
A little girl stands on it,
And begins to giggle.
I peer through the mesh of snow and rain,
Watching it form heaps on the cold terrain.
It covers Mom’s garden, caking it in layers,
As if someone had painted it there, with great big sprayers.
Shovels of snow duress the trees,
Leaving stranded, lonely leaves.
I sigh with boredom, close my eyes,
Listening to my sibling’s happy cries.
I didn’t like outside, not much really,
But right now, it’s cold and dreary.