Like magic, on one of the unseasonably warm days of this winter, I flipped the page and found this poem, perfectly expressing how I felt about the weather.

Billy Collins, "Report from the Subtropics," Aimless Love

For one thing, there's no more snow
to watch from an evening window,
and no armful of logs to carry into the house
so cumbersome you have to touch the latch with an elbow,

and once inside, no iron stove like an old woman
waiting to devour her early dinner of wood.

No hexagrams of frost to study
on the cold glass panes of the bathroom.

No black sweater to pull over my head
while I wait for the coffee to brew.

Instead, I walk around in children's clothes--
shorts and a tee shirt with the name of a band
lettered on the front, announcing me to nobody.

The sun never fails to arrive early
and refuses to leave the party
even after I go from room to room,
turning out all the lights, and making a face.

And the birds with those long white necks?
All they do is swivel their heads
keeping an eye on me as I walk along,
as if they all knew my password
and the name of the little town where I was born.