Being Iowan Means: Winter Weary

I’ve never been one, For heading down south. As soon as the leaves, Get as dry as a drought. They hang there all golden, All orange and red. I think of all the song birds, They must be “winter” fed. To pack all my stuff, In the back of the car. Head then for the border, Always seemed . . . going too far. For me, I suck it up, Buy warm socks & shoes. Turn on the T.V. set, Grab snacks and Mt. Dew’s. The ball games, there are many, The furnace has been checked. There are plenty of groceries, Pantries piled. . . double decked. Why this great rush, To join the ‘grey haired’ masses. That will take their big R.V.’s To the Florida grasses. To the dryer called Arizona, To the spaces called Texas. You wimps are too spoiled, What you need are more taxes. Those were yesterday’s thoughts, I’ve had them for years. I think all my adult life, Since dry behind my ears. But since Global Warming, Has hit the Mid West. Maybe heading down south, Might really be best. You see, for a month, It’s snowed and now blowin’. The temps are so low, They’re barely now showin’. The numbers are all negative, The wind makes them worse. I have words for all this, But not fit for a verse. I’ve just come back inside, From attacking tall drifts. So if I seem a bit upset, I admit that I am miffed. I cleared my double drive, To get our cars in and out, Then the plow comes along, That sight makes me…