We look up and see the same moon
casting shadows on the ground around us
but you are high north and I am deep south.
The brutal vortex that blows her wrath,
freezes all warm bones in her path,
and hammers you like a pneumatic drill
is little more than a fleeting chill
that makes me pull on a sweater.
On mornings when you can even go,
you must first forge a passage
through encasing snow, scrape that car
windshield of its coating…crawling slowly
on thin ice, careful not to slip sideways.
Here, no ice coats anything, sunshine bright,
temperate days like your spring.
No flowers bloom, no green abounds,
nature there is on hiatus.
Orchids hanging under our ligustrum
are still bursting tiny buds of blooms.
Your birds fly here,
even your people.
Snowbirds surround us
until March or April.
Mary inspires us to consider different perspectives over at dVerse Poets: http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/25/poetics-on-the-other-hand/