The sun is nowhere to be seen
and an icy wind is slicing through
leafless trees.

An old friend has died
and another is trying to hold on
to his once brilliant mind.

In warmer weather I often meet turtles
I know on this path, now covered
with snow.

Winter doesn’t matter much
to us anymore. Our Stonehenge folks,
who, like us, were mostly water,

shivered through the cold
without goosedown coats,
baked brownies or xanax.

Rumor has it they were afraid
the sun would run away some day
leaving them in the dark.

You could say we know better,
but still, I shiver, even though I know

the turtles I’ve met out here
lie dreaming of summer
under this snow.