Jane Yolen lives and writes in Hatfield, Massachusetts.

Long Winter
By Jane Yolen

Winter warms itself by the fire.
The slow melt curls at its feet,
dog to master, waiting patiently
for the spring run.

This was not a dozy time,
but a shaking in the rafters,
some errant ghost of winters past
howling at a haloed moon.

I remember winters when the diapers
hung on the line frozen solid.
We could have used them
for cricket bats.

I remember the January
our icy footprints stood
as inverted statues,
along the garden path.

I remember the car refusing
to start, a toddler saying no
with no orange popsicle
for a handy bribe.

We grew older, hoary,
cautious in our winters,
thinking them all about sledding
and building snow forts.

Now in my seventies
I truly feel the cold,
carnivorous as wolves
on the Russian roads,

chasing the sledge.