Anticipating equinox

If only just a bit.

The sun shines bright on mah old Maine midcoast home --
The wind, though: due west, cold as a witch’s tit, 
And forty knots, plus. I’m prepared for it:
Layers. Space heaters. So I can scribble a pome
Jacketless, shoeless. Quite a nice prodrome
Of warmer days to come. And not a bit
Deterred, sleep in my usual bedtime kit,
Déshabillé. (Blame the Y chromosome).

With lots of blankets, though. So here’s the moral: 
When cold winds blow, and find you, well, bare-assed, 
Pile on whatever covers; and don’t quarrel
About the fiber, or what might have passed
Under them erstwhile, penile or clitoral. 
Stay warm tonight, and let the past be past.