As I grow old,
My friends are cold,
And off they go
To flee the snow.
They’ve waited long
to join the throng.
They emigrate,
And haughtily they celebrate.
They sink the putt
And tan somewhat,
Invite their kin
To rub it in.
They start to crow
Like now they know
That moving forth,
They’re better than their friends up north.
They started young
With wagging tongue,
Lamenting cold
(The whining, old)
They all presumed
We were entombed.
Their endless moan:
Cold weather is a cause to groan.
They now assume
That winter’s gloom
And cold and ice
Are sacrifice
And cause to mourn
For all those born
Where on clear nights
We maybe see the Northern Lights.
So, as for me,
The nth degree
Of summer heat
Is pretty sweet.
And garden’s bloom
Is sweet perfume,
AND winter’s squall
(Or I would not live here at all.)
My snowbird friends,
Your view offends.
I am not jailed –
My will’s availed.
I choose my fate.
I pick my state.
Assumptions suck.
Your point of view has run amok.
Assume for me
I want to flee
On airplane flights
From winter nights?
You think I’m trapped,
But I am rapt
And I rejoice
That where one lives is just a choice.
