January

January comes,
and with it, cold.
I'm dressed for temperatures
at least five degrees lower:
Sweater, socks, scarf.
Reptile, my mother says,
it's true:
something in me
slithers and hisses,
glares at the world
with a lidless yellow eye.

These are the days when nothing counts.
Not the sun warming my toes,
nor the unexpected purple bloom
a creeper, wild, choosing to make
my garden home.
So what if a flock of egrets
is a drifting cloud by the lake?
I'm thinking: bird poop.

Count your blessings.
Tomorrow, I think, tomorrow.
Today, let me count my sorrows,
name them each by each;
tomorrow I'll pack them away,
where they'll remain moth-balled,
safe, until I shake them out
to warm me another winter's day.