Winter can try her best to rally, but her power is waning. Her pitiful attempts at a comeback are short-lived. We're not afraid of her any more. Her voice grows faint, and in its place we can hear the strains of the song of Spring.
I want to run outside without my coat! My flip-flops beckon from yon closet. But hello -- what's this? Whose feet are these at the end of my legs? Someone has surgically removed my own toes, it would seem, and transplanted a batch of MAN-toes on my feet. **Sigh**. This is what happens when you don't see your feet for 5 months out of the year.
The Winter Of My Toes
In winter
My toes live cloistered
In my socks
And do not associate
With the Outside World
They may long to bask
In warm sunlight
On a patio laid with cool flagstones
But theirs is a dark and woolly clime
In winter
My toes are neglected
They grow handsome
Burly and robust
And lose touch with their feminine side
Like old bachelors
Left to fend for themselves
