The Full Wolf

Into a fresh, crow call, tumble cloud grey...
I rose, and saw a January day.

The storm had purged pollution from the sky,
Then settled, as if to wonder why
The crows today would rule the air
With their murder flock brand of despair
And not the myriad birdsong we hear
In the more cheerful wind of the year
Telling us winter is the time to cry
Or lower our caskets when we die
And forward ponder how a life will go
When it recovers from the Zephyr blow,
To reappear, like the chickadees,
Whose diminution will not have them freeze.

How they persevere, I do not know.
I guess they roll where the breezes flow
And peck detritus from the haggard trees
When storms reduce them to their puny knees.

But now a solar beam; Now hints of blue
To show us winter is not always true,
And still the dimmest day is bright at noon
Compared to midnight with her fullest moon!

I will take my pills. I will go to work,
And celebrate every seasonal quirk
Yoking almanacs to the giddy ear...
Of an epiphanic sonneteer!