A poem

The cold is a sharpener. A whetstone on the world.

It makes the sky stronger, like marble, more vivid in its crepuscular color.

It makes the air thicker: the crunch of my boots on the sidewalk’s new coat of snow slices through it, so clean and clear.

It makes my body taut, every breath in and out a miracle of muscle and will. Even the golden porch-light is bolder in the cold.

It makes my mind work harder: with every blink I fight its paralyzing touch on my thoughts. Every thought is a thought of cold.

The cold makes us sharper. And that’s just the way I like it.