Wistful Winter Wishing For A Cabin Poem by John W. McEwers

It's cold outside, corpse cold
Like the cold of ancient armies ghosts.
Tree limbs wavering, leaf-bare, tree limbs dead to the touch.

It is in this winter-killed travesty
That I must sit inside in.
Blanket, sure, and cocoa mug,
Snow boots.
Warm pants.

Rip them off I would,
In front a fire,
On the floor.
Naked I would be.
Naked.
On the floor.

A blanket would be good then,
A blanket and a friend.
Someone to look at me and say
I really like your cabin.