The first snow drops in like a childhood friend
you haven’t seen in years, and you’re a child
          again and do not mind
shoveling, trudging through drifts, bundling for cold.

But by the middle of the season you’re
a half a season older. Now you cough,
          and your whole back is sore.
Another storm. You wish she’d knock it off!

But down she beats—to torment you, of course.
You cannot husband her. If only you
          could get a fast divorce—
one of those “Catholic ones” would even do,

living apart. Once more, you’re Outahere!
you menace loudly, slipping on the walk.
          Then the snows disappear,
and fast, as if your threat had done the trick,

and she, a deaf old friend, had finally heard.
And you forget her in a month, at most,
          seeing the spring’s first bird
outside your window, like a love, long lost.