Call me odd but I do love Winter.
I love it and, truth be told, every spring I am a little sad to see it end.
Here in the high north I love its breadth: those dark mornings now five months past,
Sitting by the crackling stove sipping coffee – ah, no rush,
quarter to seven and still three hours ‘til sunrise.
And its depth: those coldest days, the days we just stayed close to home,
Cancelling work, splitting wood, gathering spruce tips for the dogs’ houses,
their barks an icy fog at forty-five below.
And now at last I love its sloppy sunlit finish:
Working all day in shirtsleeves, bare-handed for the first time since September,
Swinging a big hammer
to the music of the rushing creek and the robin’s song.