Your windows caulked, washed,
locked and sealed in plastic,
your two sturdy new shovels
and a hundred pounds of sand.

Your lights stay on all day under
these kinds of skies, the birds
in chill good riddance, have gone
further south this year, earlier.

You blow hard on your hands,
beat your hands to your breast,
wipe your nose on your gloves,
quick step briskly in place.

You nail a blanket to the door.
It starts to begin to maybe snow.

“Almost Winter” originally appeared in The Longest You’ve Lived Anywhere (Upriver Press, 2012) and is reprinted here with permission of the author.