on night's like this
ice pebbled on my car's windshield
shuffling to put on my gloves
brushing and scraping the glass
I am reminded that the extreme cold
is most beloved of my soul
I read once, composer John Adams
in New England, taking his dog for a walk
the wind chill, negative twenty
a cleansing and a meditation
a hard look within, dog hale and smiling
it's coming
can you feel it like you know it?
you read about it, heard it discussed
not the single digit weather
but the arrival of the ritual fires
burning the dross
cooking the bread
relinquishing the silver
from the dull ore
that has calcified around our hearts
