Holed up in Good Weather, 16 January 2018

Winter sometimes, it seemed, was a need
Of the mind as much as a product
Of thermometers. On a perfectly suitable day
For early spring, the mild air stirring,
The sunshine pouring in, body was having
None of it, determined to stay at a table
Beside a south window, the ideal position
In which to work bundled while it snowed.
A bear might die without a hibernation;
A mind might go awry without a few dreams.
I hunkered down with my texts and writing,
A fisherman with nets needing mending
Whether or not winter weather rolled in.
And what did I mutter around the hot stove
Only in my head? Only that another
Few decades of technology uninterrupted
Would see the final erosion of the reasons
To be fine-tuned to Earth’s periodicity.
The pressure of selection now favors those
Who can do with little mending and less sleep.