I'm transfixed, by the window, in their grips.
I still am sick, could barely lift a hand
To heave and shovel snow - though it's the hips
And legs that should do that work - yet I would
So dearly like to go play in that fresh, white
Inviting snow. My skis are - to the good -
In Saratoga, so that's out. All right
But just a walk? A bike ride? A quick romp
With Molly in the park? I really ought
To stay home and get well at last. I stomp
An angry foot at this, though. Yes, I've got
A poor track record, being sick and then
Undoing efforts to get well again.