Sometimes nature takes precedence over public life and — except for the valiant few such as public works employees, mail carriers, and power company technicians who venture out to restore electrical lines — most of us do our best to huddle in warm and windless places.
Here, in honor of the cold and wind, is a 4-line rhymed poem I wrote long ago in Massachusetts:
In around the spruce and hemlocks, snow blows;
with the voice of northern winter, wind whines;
as the sun gives ground to shadow, cold grows;
from the church-white houses’ chimneys, smoke twines.