There's no denying the cold sometimes. It could be colder, yes, but it's damned cold now. The wind isn't blowing, so that's something.
I wish the wood stove were in.
Mary Oliver: Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else . . .
From Mary Oliver's "Cold Poem."