The shortest day came and went;
another instance of cloudy gloom.
No indication the sun will return.
This cozy bed could be my tomb.
With a fury the cold wind blows.
My frail walls and timbers creak.
The age of winter is in full bloom.
Out my icy windowpane I peek.
Long shadows cover the ground;
refusing to give daylight a chance.
Seasons fight their tug-of-war;
all just part of the ‘Solstice dance’.
Just when things are most dire;
the Ice King howls his final rage.
Firewood stacked upon the porch;
as weather moves to its new stage.