Winter Is No Time by Jane Yolen

Winter is no time for poetry. My fingers ache; the attic where I write has ice-fogged   window cartoons, pentiments of a long cold. Winter is no time for poetry. Light is middle-aged here, the sun sitting at an awkward   uncomfortable angle,   a mere shadow of itself. Winter is not time for poetry. I count the peeling paper, crackling on the attic walls,   flowers once golden, now   faded, like the poet. Winter is no time for poetry. But through the iced window   a bird on the wire   phones in a promise   of coming spring.