That bluish tongue of Arctic air,
a "polar vortex" on TV,
plunged far below our nation's belt
beyond Missouri, Tennessee.
The mercury hit record lows,
so cold the Postal Service closed.
The warnings came: If out you go,
don't ever leave your skin exposed.
Imprisoned in my house, I feared
if non-stop furnace threw a screw,
abruptly quit, I'd freeze to death
'cause temp inside would plummet too.
I truly dread, abhor such cold,
but frostbite's nip I had to chance
as feeder needed to be filled.
The starving birds did flock and dance.
I stepped outside reluctantly
and instantly my fingers froze.
The frigid air soon numbed my face;
it stung my eyes and bit my nose.
I found some seed, the feeder’s full.
Yet bird bath’s still a block of ice
a steaming kettle couldn’t melt
despite my filling, pouring twice.
The worst is over now they say
and temperatures are on the rise.
but snow advisory/alert.
By noon eight inches no surprise.
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