#208. or, Forty Below (a poem)

So,
occasionally, and unfortunately the place that I call home also happens to be the coldest place in the world. The whole damn world! When that happens, even though I'd rather not go outdoors, those are often the days I have to be outside most of all.

In an effort to delay that happening for as long as possible, sometimes I'll pour an extra cup of coffee and do something to avoid the inevitable.

Something like writing a poem.

About going outside.

This is one of those efforts:


My toes are cold, my fingers numb, my nose is red and rosy.
The temperature is in a plunge and it's less than minus Forty.

It's a lovely day to stay inside, but with that being said,
there's cows out there, and they're cold too, and waiting to be fed.

So outside we go, to feed those cows, to deliver bales round.
I can see my breath, I'm layered up, on my face there is a frown.

My tractor's stiff, my seat is cold, my loader won't do the up and down.
I'm certain if I stop too long, I'd be frozen to the ground.

But I can't say much, I can't complain, I really shouldn't whine.
Cause my wife's with me, and she's outside,

.......cutting off the twine!