My Boss

My boss watches me like a drone,           
When all day he talks to his phone.
Hot with his temper
Words like a splinter
He wishes he was Al Capone.

by Dena McKinnon

Listen

Do you listen...
To the bitter cold, the days in the calendar grown old...
Bleak blizzards glisten against crystal snow, do you know...
That freezing flurries have no hurry when the flannel's fleece has a peace...
Ice crystals, ice skating, ice hockey, ice fishing...insulation...
When the polar pullover runs out of heat and pine cones the only thing to eat....
Worship the furnace for the fire before you retire can chase away death...
Melted mittens, bony kittens sipping ice cream on a dream of sun shines...
Minds frigid freezer frosty chills that only a ratchety radiator kills...

Do you hear...
The sound of frostbit fingers, snapping and breaking in water warm...
Can be no swarm when the hive's frozen, sleeping bees by the dozen...

Can you taste...
Winters warning knocking at the knob cakes cushioning the blow...
Footprints in the snow...
Or angels dusted with a glistening throw...
Frozen solid like the solstice cometh to charm...
Do as you will but do no harm....
Alarmed by the lack of senses....
And fences...
Do you feel the season?