The sting of snow
Slaps you back
Into the present,
Where a fire waits,
A chair in front of it,
And sodden clothes
Drip dry in the blaze
And flicker of the logs.
Outside, the white world
Waits for you also,
Pure and cold,
And your whirling thoughts
Are crouched in ambush,
Vigilant demons,
Under a drift,
On a laden bough;
But here the fire,
Spitting and twisting,
Jolts you awake
To the brimful now.
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