Sunday. Frozen. Cold. Sunshine. Two pairs of thick socks, wood stove bellowing away, men outside in gloves and coats wielding hammers and saws and big manly tools. I was out there for a while, puttering away in the open garage at a little woodworking project that wasn't easily attacked in gloves. Bare nekked hands don't like the cold and the fingers stiffen and turn into useless, unthinking stumps prone to getting shut in tool boxes, and pinched between pieces of wood. I hurried through and got'er done so that I could spend the rest of the afternoon in my sun-drenched studio pretending it's 70 degrees outside....and knowing that I have never seen REAL cold - double digits below negative - nope. Never. I suppose then I could say "it's cold".
by Eamon Grennan
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things
in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it
as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone,
telling its tale of how hard the night had to be
for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood
no match for the mindless chill that's settled in,
a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff
from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze
glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped
on every window, its petrifying breath a cage
in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
by Emily Dickinson
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made --
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