The day closes down, hangs out this sign
The season slams the door, this is winter’s
Discontent, disconnect, our yard is buried
Windows secure, lawn furniture stowed
Away, everything is put away, stacked up
In the garage, in the cellar, holding, waiting
In our cloistered world of forced hot air and
Early dark we pace, we wander, bide our
Time as best we can, like old time shut-ins
Outcasts cast in, looking out at this snow
This cold, the wind still whispering, but it’s
No longer whispering our names.