Poem – Out My Window


Out My Window

The ice huts have appeared

looking like the tops of ships sticking

out of the lake ice, proof of a sudden catastrophe.

The sun looks a lot warmer than it is.

Summer seems like a dreamland

a million miles off.

In July we will miss the refreshing cold

as we swat mosquitoes and check

our tan has not turned to lobster red.

In Fall, the leaves turn our eyes inside out,

our neighbours burn them and

in our new smokehouse home

we slam our windows shut.

In Spring, we watch the dog tramp in mud

stare back at the rain steel sky.

Settling for a season does not slip easily

over our ears and nose.

Weather complaints must be guaranteed  in the Constitution.

Our common right.

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Author: William J. Gibson

62 year old - writer/photographer Canadian, survived open heart surgery, received kidney transplant, sometimes dour, sometimes amusing, over six feet in height, severely follicle challemged

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