C’mon, Old Man Winter,
hit me with your best shot.
I am not afraid of you.
Bring on your Buffalo blizzards,
your icy polar vortex.
Pile snow upon my doorstep,
and let the plows bury my car.
Frosty, the Snowman and Jack Frost
can gang up and pelt me with snowballs.
I am perfectly content to wait you out,
to stay inside my nice house,
and stand next to the radiator
with a cup of hot tea warming my hands.
I will amuse myself by watching
your antics on the Weather Channel.
Do blankets of your winter whiteness
depress me? Not in the least.
Pitchers and catchers report
in just a couple of weeks.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME