As I dodged the sleet Monday, I came to an inescapable conclusion: Winter will never end.

We are in a real-life version of the movie “Groundhog Day,” seemingly reliving the same cold, gray, dismal day. The skiers have never been happier, but for those of us who like things like sun and warmth, it has been difficult not to get a case of weather frustration.

The great writers turned their despair into poetry. What’s to stop a mediocre one from giving it a try?

Dank and dreary West Amherst Saturday afternoon. Your trees are bereft of leaves, barren branches etched against a gray February sky. Your air is crisp, but inviting, a rare chance to return outdoors after many weeks of feeling trapped. Unfortunately, your streets don’t all have sidewalks and even the ones that do are only occasionally shoveled, forcing me to take my chances on the street. Your thoughtless residents driving on Sweet Home Road come way too close to me as I walk. How I would like to punch that one SUV driver in the face.

Lovely snowflake, wafting from above. How tiny you seem as you fall to the earth below. Perhaps you will help make a snowman, or be tossed in a fierce snowball fight. Perhaps you will invite a few gazillion friends to get together and cover my driveway in the middle of the night. Please don’t take it personally when I throw you on the lawn, cursing you as I do.

Oh, fellow eastbound 290 travelers. Where is life taking you? What music fills your car? Do you smile at the familiar lyrics of days gone by? Are you ever going to put down that cell phone? Have you heard that it is against the law to not use a hands-free device? And, by the way, do you ever plan to signal when you switch lanes?

Reality, thy name is outdoor thermometer. You tell no tales. You are truth. I seek your advice, your counsel. Lately, you tell me the same thing every day: “Put on a hat and gloves, doofus. It’s freezing out here!” I ponder whether you know that your mercury can go past 32.

Behold the glistening icicle, winter’s jewel. From the constant drip of water, you transform, Kafka-like, into a shining reminder of the frigid season. How beautiful you are. I watch you linger and wonder how you will remind me of your presence this year: By falling onto my head and giving me a concussion or ripping the gutters off my roof?

I must know now, I cannot wait, thank God for Local on the 8s. Perhaps good weather news awaits, courtesy of Local on the 8s. The music plays, here comes our fate, as told by Local on the 8s. The five-day forecast? Not so great. Stupid Local on the 8s.My sense of dread, it exacerbates. Thanks for nothing, Local on the 8s.

Alas, poor souls in Baltimore, Philadelphia and Washington, buried in snow. Unaccustomed as you are to slippery roads, backbreaking shoveling, cabin fever, you seek compassion and sympathy. Are you kidding me? The high temperature there every day this week will be in the 40s. Is there even any snow on the ground anymore?

I hope I’m wrong about winter never ending. But at times like these, I am re-minded of the great philosopher/second baseman Rogers Hornsby, who once was asked what he did during the long winter months when he couldn’t play baseball. His answer was pure poetry.

“I’ll tell you what I do,” he said. “I stare out the window and wait for spring.”