Winter arrives with a blistery chill.

You complain through chattering teeth,

with arms crossed and hands nested in mittens.

Bundled like a newborn,

yet still subject to the whims of nature.

Even now, as the icy wind blasts,

your words from mere weeks ago

echo in my mind.

Were you not the one who complained

of the late September heat?

With exception to one week in fall,

and one week in spring,

you never find comfort.

For you, enough is never enough.

Can you not see the beauty around you at present?

The snow swirls in an elegant dance

around the iced branches of the sycamore.

The chickadee sits on a picket fence,

subject to the same cold as you,

yet poised to greet the day with a triumphant cry.

Can you not do the same?