Stopping to blog
on a snowless morning

There are no woods. I see no snow.
And though it’s ten degrees below,
There’s precious little white romance
To counteract this dark and woe.

My little horse is in a trance.
He hasn’t room enough to prance
Within my small apartment home,
Which hasn’t really much expanse.

He laughs as I compose this poem,
And says he’s sure it’s quite the tome,
But he remains a metaphor
Extant in my cerebral dome.

The snowless winter I abhor,
But poetry does much restore
A season I do oft adore,
A season I do oft adore.