Poetry ~ March Winds

The aspen trees bend under 
          unyielding March winds.
The grove moans swaying violently
          in the late winter storm.
The early birds disappear
          having come north too soon.
Another log on the fire
          thwarts the rising chill in the air.
Blankets, put up a week earlier
          are pulled from the winter chest.
The tea kettle whistles
          as the homestead snuggles up
and settles down for winter’s last gasp.