The Ruse of Mild Air

In this warmer than normal winter,

the trees are budding early,

in February’s

rain instead of snow.

I feel I ought to go outside

and bring some soothing tea,

play a tranquil song

for harp and strings,

be the sandman for a spell,

send the rousing leaves-to-be

back into their shells,

lest the winds return from the north,

puddles freeze over,

and greening branches waken

to a bird-less lie of ice.

Andreas Gripp

Andreas Gripp