I've been thinking.  I ought to become
A bear.  I have no use for winter.  I don't
Like the cold.  It hurts my hands.  The snow
Has no appeal, as I don't ski.  I find it
Irritating.  I don't see much good in the days
Being short, in the hoopla surrounding
Christmas.  I sit out these months morosely,
Waiting for warmth, and leaves and flowers,
The heady odors of growth, to return.  I may
As well mimic the bears and sleep through
This terrible time of the year, waking only
After it's passed, and a world I'd rather inhabit
Surrounds me again.