The polar vortex howls on the weather channel today.
How many will be frozen by the weatherman’s report?
It isn’t easy to ignore what news-terrorists say;
even I imagine they think of weather like a sport.
Bracing the storm with a microphone and no umbrella.
Slashed by slanted snow, glazed with ice, hat caught in the vortex,
“Am I on yet?” he screams into the wind’s a cappella
white wail. White noise, like the snowstorm, white like the icy hex,
terror-making face and words white-spilling from the TV.
I don’t watch the weather channel. I read seed catalogues.
Everyone has been frozen by this winter except me.
I ignore the acceptance of this icy pedagogue.
Like the snowstorm, I need no microphone to call for spring,
but she’s not on yet since no birds are left here that can sing.
