You whine and whine about this weather pattern,
saying your earlobes, hands, and toes are cold
as if they’d been submerged in ice on Saturn.

You criticize the cosmic ball of gold
for rising ever later every dawn.
Yet kvetching isn’t fetching. It gets old.

Seeing as you’ve no magical baton
with which to tweak the climate, is complaining
like rumbling thunder helpful? Well, go on!

Go live at the equator. Am I chaining
you to this place? Leap skyward and take wing!
You’ll get there and then gripe that it is raining.

Besides, you’d miss a mighty special thing:
the stealthy, catlike creeping up of spring.