In which I write a poem about the lion wind...

This Sunday

This wind is the offspring of
the four foot snow layered deep
on the playgrounds and tire tracks
between Boston and Portland, Maine.

It growls through thin branches
and sends twigs and dead leaves to
scratch at chilled window panes,
to scrape across wet pavement and
push puddles down the drainage.

It shifts, like a dreaming beast,
against the walls of our Sexton
home, aching for unwelcome entrance.