Water has taken solid shapes, maintaining through sun and moonlight both, the same crystaline patterns for days now. Wind whips any warmth away you’ve tried to squirrel up like loose change or lint in back pockets or in between half-numb toes. The tricksy fingers of winter are relentless snatchers, pickpocketing all the extra heat the bends of your knees and elbows and your hair folicles had some ill-made plans to secure.
Sunlight, ever near, is hard to come out into. Blink and freeze. Frozen eyes and chapped, rose-red, blood-licked lips. The inside of your mouth is becoming one of those semi-permanent crystal shapes but the breath on the edge of your nose — 98 degrees — is the only thing that keeps the hairs from snapping like ice icles from the inside of your nostrils.
Three things keep you warm and dry: hot beverages made from plants long dead, music melancholy as you feel, and fiction. A pair of maroon colored over-big trousers warm your legs in the interior of this mysteriously built house while the mug warms the crook of your leg and foot.
Folded up like origami in a chair beside the place where fire burns. A secret fire burns of treasured plans and far-off springtime images, and the quickly coming darkness of the shortest day out of 365.24.
Wind and ice and cold. Warm monthly blood caught up between your legs. And a half remembered mug of coffee. All these strange dead-season treasures remind you, headache and bones ache and tummy ache side of things, why you don’t want to go out today.
So settle in and get some various kinds of other work done. All these deathly things, eventually, will pass. Enjoy what there is to have. And as you drink this — think of me.