29 Mar

By Rick McVicar 

Old Man Winter lingers with his bony fingers 

Scratching my balding scalp, 

Squeezing my aging top,

 Keeping me from my daily walk. 

Wind chills in single digits 

Coming at the end of March. 

I pull my tattered flannel shirt 

Onto my body, 

Tired of my winter clothes 

Shielding me from being frozen.

I long for the feel of a short-sleeved shirt 

With my arms freely hanging, 

Thoughts of summer are left dangling. 

Instead, I pull up thermal underwear 

To fight the dreadful cold. 

Old Man Winter is always bold. 

He is a rock crushing stone. 

Calendar says spring is here. 

Old Man Winter is still to be feared. 

His relentless hold grabs my bones.

Green grass is covered with snow. 

Green grass is covered with snow.

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