Don Thompson wrote this poem.

Revolution
By Don Thompson

Winter is running out of excuses.
We’ve heard it all before, and no one
trusts the wind’s empty bluster.
There’s no real cold left in it.
No frost on the grass for weeks,
nor ice in the horse trough,
and you can’t believe anything
the bare trees show you from a distance.
Even in this sickly light, you can see
buds if you get close enough.
Change is coming.
Gradually, a few degrees every day,
thermometers are rising
against the old regime.