Martin Elster: Where Is Winter?

I feel no chill. The trees are still
    as leafy as September.
The last cold spell that I can tell of—
    well, I can’t remember.

Ticks and skeeters, stealthy feeders,
   meet their gluttonous needs,
caterpillars crawl and trillers
    clitter in the weeds,

while warblers sing as if bright spring
    had not advanced to autumn.
Where are the walls of white, the squalls
    that numb a beaver’s bottom?

Bullfrogs boom and dogwoods bloom
   and fiddleheads unfurl
to touch the rays of a star whose blaze
    makes the twisters reel and whirl.

At Baffin Beach, the kittiwakes screech
    above the heedless swimmers.
It’s eighty-five, tomatoes thrive,
    and the Sea of Mayhem shimmers.

Oh, how I lust for a blustery gust,
    cold caterwauling blows.
Oh, how I ache for a feathery flake
    to slalom down my nose!

In all this heat, I face defeat
    by horseflies, gnats, and fleas.
Snow should be falling on insects so galling.
    I want to see them freeze!

When will I hear a blizzard’s clear
    and roaring kettledrum?
It’s February. This is scary.
    Winter, kindly come.

Trees by sea.