Unseasonably Warm

It is strange, this winter of warmth,
of flowers in December,
and shirtsleeves and skin
when normally you would be buried
under down and wool,
hunkered down as you run from house to car,
your breath freezing in your beard.

You learned long ago not to question God,
who brings what he will when he will.
It is, evidently, never too early,
never too late
for flowers.

And so you take her hand.
You kiss the back of her neck,
and you walk down the path,
uncertain where it leads,
certain it is the right way.

About this poem

About the weather. About love. About the goodness of God. About old age. How often do you get to put all four in a single poem?

Happily yours,

Tom