In Which Our Craftiness Is Tested, Or Brrr It's Bleeping Cold Out There

My house is warm with fam'ly, but outside

The wind roars bitterly, and it's damned cold.

When it's just me I let this matter slide,

Throw on another sweater, but, cajoled

By those I love I cranked my thermostat

Beyond the 60s. Then, 'cause there are drafts,

We nailed up a big blankie to combat

The frigid air from my back door. Such craft

As exercised here might seem to exceed

Our daily quota, but we're smarter yet!

When planning for the grocery run, indeed,

We planned for turkey soup and whatnot. Bet

We still have to go shopping Friday? No,

We roar, you cannot make us go!

In Which I Believe I'm Staying In Tonight After All

Martinis with the girls, that was my plan
To celebrate what is my Friday night.
But as I find a window and I scan
The snowy streets, one fact doth come to light:
What now is fluffy snow will get packed down
By rush hour's vast herd of cars and trucks
Until quite nearly ev'ry road in town
Could double as a hockey rink. Aw, shucks.
I do have errands that had best not wait,
But they can happen ere sunset and then
It's best that I head home. T'will be too late
By then to venture safely out again.
Perhaps if holidays weren't here to cause
A surge in drunken drivers I'd not pause.

In Which I Ponder A Strange Metaphor

This morning, as I rose ere dawn, we had
A temperature of Zero Degrees "Eff"
(With emphasis on "Eff"; I won't be bad
And spell out what that stands for). Some foul theft
Of all our warmth had happened in the night,
And sunrise did not bring us more. It's cold -
More so than a well-digger's butt, all right,
As my friend Bonnie eloquently told
Her Facebook friends, which prompted a profound
Discussion, how the baseline readings came
To be established? Did one ask around
And quote well-diggers' feelings name by name?
Or was data - empirical and real
Recorded. Just how cold did each butt feel?

In Which I Feel The Approach Of A New Season

The leaves, still green, could have blown off the trees

Today, instead of twisting to point out

The wind's direction. We've not had a freeze

As yet, to make my neighbors rush about

And cover their tomatoes, but, this week,

When I get on my bike, the sky's still dark,

For that first morning ride to work. Soon bleak

And cold this trip will be, lonely and stark --

Already my hands need a pair of gloves.

But for right now, the grasshoppers, my friends

Still bask in afternoon heat, but my loves

Grow sluggish, and more of them meet their ends

'Neath walking feet and skates and, yes, bike tires.

And with them soon the summer, too, expires.

I Did My Bit for Global Warming, and I'll Do It Again Before January is Out

I thought, perhaps, I'd ride my bike today
As morning dawned, so bright and clear and clean.
My plans on sober pond'ring went astray;
The cold wind in my face, also the sheen
Of hoarfrost glitt'ring all around the place
Belied, indeed, my window's invitation.
Astride my bike, I go at a good pace,
Much rapider than in p'rambulation.
A walk with collie proved I'd be a fool
To let that cold wind hit with greater speed.
Am I a wimp? Oh well, I'm sure that you'll
Say so. I just didn't see the need
For pain. And so, though it's not very far,
I did my grocery shopping with my car.