“Though Winter’s Days Are Short”
Though winter’s days are short they linger long; nor Shakespeare,
Dickens, rhymes sublime, nor Frost, nor fresh philosophies
Of life replace the supple apple, the simpler breeze,
The ordered clutter of the hardware store, the smell of tires, shears
To cut the hedge defining future refining hours. I take the hint.
There will be another spring. He puts the books back on the shelf;
“To do” will trump “to learn”, the self by turn with elves
At work to hide my pipe, my wicks, and flints
To find me close behind them in the aft;
At best, for me a block of wood, a knife, and, yes,
Another broth sits roundly near my soul. The Saxon riddle gets
A nod from me, and basic the box of macaroni―Kraft
Of course―will do with bits of chicken or the blessing of a flake or two
Of tuna from the can, solace for what he can no longer chew.