To Winter (The Critic)


and you…I’ve grown tired of the grind
of your smug incessant wind.  Captious talk,
informed and sly.
I’ve locked my window
against your crevice seeking fingers.
You have nothing new to say.  Your mind is fine
but way too cold.  And dead.  Two long months ago
I turned my head away, and now, my seeds arranged
and on display
I wait for sun, and growth, and day.

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