The wind rushes all around the house like a waterfall.
The house pushes back hard against the cold.
We would sit together before the fire but there is no fire.
We would share old stories but the stories have faded from us.
How unlikely we are. Rare as the glittering trees bowed in the yard.
And the white fields brimming over with light. Tell me we are living
in the place the world has made for us, is still making.
Wander through the house, drink tea all day, look to what is.
Let your heart be unfenced country, deep with snow.
Be of this timeless cold, its ruthlessness, its far-seeking.

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