Ode to the Cold

O, cows, how you huddle in piles
Noses tucked into your sides against the wind,
Making me smile as I bluster past
you in my car, enroute to work, snow swirling.

I, myself, am bundled in the auto,
Ralphie's-brother-like,
Braced against the ridiculous Idaho temps.
I bet Randy was not as grateful as I

to his Mama for buying him a Cuddl Duds cami
to keep the top half warmer, and
to his bro and sis-in-law for the warm silk pants under the pants
to keep the evil wind at bay, and
to the Mama and the Daddy for the stadium coat
to which all others bow in envy of its downy warmitude.

Human seven-layer-Mexican-dip, am I!
A wintry, pasty version.

Then there is the mane. Its purpose in
Winter is to grow long and thick; keep my
Noggin warm, o wads of curls.
However,
if a ringlet escapes, unknown, into the
Cold, as groceries you load into the
Car, it becomes a tube of chilly horror,
which, surreptitiously, as
You reach to start the engine,
Slips back inside your coat collar,
Encircling your neck,
an icy feather boa.

From your throat:
"Yeeeeeaaaaw-ha-ha-haaaaa!"

And again you bow to the cold.

Not unlike the sun, stared
Down by the grass, snow-encrusted,
saying to the mighty orb in the sky,
"Yes, here you may bring light! But,
You will bring no warmth!
My snow
WILL STAY!

Neener! Neener! NEENER!"