This is why we bundle: freezing rain, a loss of pitch. The accuracy
of this ink white sheet. Forecasts one might reach by water.
Schools closed, pajama days; suspension of a letter.
Our small children abide. This day, separated
by music, returns to earth. Street branches, glisten ; hibernating
local rabbits, squirrels. Where birds, forestall . What shadows
echo beyond this scene of my fifty-third yule. Winter, mostly. That first
a snowfall record , and here, barrage of wet snow , squall
and deep freeze. Old stories, signal heaven, hearth, the proportion
of roaring fires. Certain locals powerless. Sleet-frescoed glass, prosody
of what might come. We will not sleep. Each sentence here a gift.