In the midst of winter

the wind is cold

hitting fast dead and center.

The trees are naked.

The lawns are bare.

Snap, crackle, and pop,

the static is bad for my hair.

I breathe a breath into

the cool damp air

and watch it evaporate

readily quite fair.

I shiver in my boots

along with the

dried up weeded shoots,

in the mush where I stand.

Running water turned to ice,

encapsulating tree branches

and suspended in air

coming off of mountain tops,

that to the eyes tend to entice.

Mud puddles are crusted over.

There are even icicles

hanging off old Rover.

There are crusted over patches

all along the roads and bridges,

and looking just

above the treetops

there can be ice

seen on the ridges.

I love the winter 

and the changes 

that come with it,

as well as the ice 

melting slowly from the sun

inch by inch

and bit by bit.