On a cold, cold winter’s day when the wind whips through the trees,
I fly right home to warmth and comfort, a cat upon my knees.
Outside the wind rages, leaves stream horizontally,
Blue skies, white clouds scud, dropping degrees.
I settle in my big white chair, with book and rug and mug, and I
watch the wind twirl across in front of my homely snug.
I could be out in the garden. I’ll think on that today.
Right now I’m staying inside, my only thought is why
Why do I feel as though I must be out, in the cold and wind?
Why do I feel the need to be busy, feet rushing about, heading no doubt
to the work for which I sing?
No, this time, when the wind is whipping up, everything is planned, and
now is mine to be still, watch and wonder, understand
that every moment has it’s time and every thought its passing.
Here I’ll be, snug as a bug and wave as the world whirls past me.
(c) CLHHarper 8 July 2014