December Twenty Sixth

Hissing is winter music
when logs oooze energy
on open fire fires…
Mulled wine is fitting
as temperatures drop when
Jack comes leering at windows,
creeping and seeping in through
nineteenth century crannies,
curling his icy digits around ankles and toes.
How can it be that yesterday,
buterflies flitted around Christmas merriment
and today I am curled under blankets?
Could it that winter is acomin’ in, at last?