From a stove-heated room, the snow brightens
one's mind with hope that all will be made clean,
but cleanliness is next to nothingness
and nothingness is next to loneliness.
From inside, snow is silencing and light.
It's fine and shifts like sand in desert dunes.
It's silent like the depths of a cabin
at midnight on the prairie before time.
From outside, snow saps all of one's resolve,
and makes one wish to flee the purity
it pretends to generate all around.
The cold, it bites like a full-body vice.
The feet go numb, but brains... they fire wildly --
they shake one awake, but dare one to sleep.