The days have now turned wintry
And the snow flies through the air.
Icicles line the gutters
Adorning the house like hair.
The downspout’s nose is dripping,
The furnace shudders right on cue.
Tissues lying everywhere.
The house it has the flu.
We have to call the doctors
To take temps and scatter pills.
Clear passages to aid the breathing
And minister food to help the chill.
Smoke rises from the chimney,
The fever is quite high.
The eyes have clouded over.
What does this signify?
But then with all this effort
From without and from within,
The house shakes this nasty season
The prognosis is not so grim.
Soon the leaves are budding
And with them comes the warmth,
There are tears of joy to wash away
All memories of the storm.