Winter is not finished.
Perhaps it has not even begun —
it paces wide fields, pauses
in wooded corners,
turns with an abrupt flourish
of long, dark cloak,
releasing torrents — wind and rain,
maybe even snow

Head down, it broods,
and now and then
lifts blazing eyes
to meet your gaze,
to draw you in.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 22, 2016