It’s pitch black out. The furnace is happily blowing hot air through the house and keeping the icy blast outside where it belongs. I dread going out tonight to walk the dog. The temperature has dropped every time I glance at it: from 42 to 41, soon 30. My hands are made of ice and even though I hold them in front of the heat vent, they do not thaw.
My finger seems to have healed, though the whole hand hurt for over a week. There is still a mark on the nail and a spotty pressure bruise on the very tip of the finger.
The dog is dozing in her bed, awaiting the summons to outside. She doesn’t seem excited to be out there walking, but then, neither am I.
The cats have each found a vent to camp in front of, little heat vampires that they are.
Oh, Winter, with your icy fingers and cloak of ebony, lift your lantern of moon and walk toward Spring. Warmth and sun await you, and rest from your months of freezing work.