View From My Window

February

It is February
and you are cold
to the bone;
the sun is not shining.

In an old manor,
ghosts moan mournfully
in the walls-they do not
like the cold.

I am burdened. The hyacinthias
are dying in their garden,
but I cannot water them
because it is so cold out.

The weatherman says
there will be
three more months of winter;
the woodchuck is still asleep
in his warm den.