My box of heat, wherein I must reside

provides no news, no thing to write about

except how it protects from winter’s clout

is warm within, though freezing hard outside;

a differential held in tension - just.

Cold’s fingers penetrate each seam and crack

smoke and steam billow from the chimney stack

and yet pipes freeze, doors leak with every gust.

Lo! Sky is blue, air bright, and sunlight clear

as if the daffodils will push up through the snow

as if the grass will green, (forty below!),

pretending spring is past and summer’s here.

We live by thin and fragile things one makes