All those wing-nuts who take the huge snows in the mid-Atlantic and elsewhere (but not in New England although that may be about to change) as “proof” that global warming isn’t real made me think of this poem from last Fall. So with bare ground galore in Vermont at present, here goes:
All Climate Change is Local
What is it with these winter
moths who gang up
on the glass porch door
like j.d.’s hanging out
at the corner store, smoking
and intimidating passersby?
The dogs whine to go out,
but the unsightly patchwork
of November visitors –
it isn’t winter after all,
not even cold –
gives us pause.
Still when nature calls,
we all must listen.