Cold

I live in an ancient stone house....

Up leaf-littered stone stairs....

Surrounded by a mossy stone wall....

Yesterday's snow lingers. This morning the river valley is blanketed in thick, heavy fog.

It is cold.

I plan my day around the cold. I stack wood, walk the dogs, sweep and clean to stay warm.

When I sit...to read, to write, to dream...the cold seeps in.

Multiple layers, fleece, a hat...and still it seeps in.

When I'm cold, I can only think about how to get warm

But not too warm.

Don't sweat, don't get chilled...that's even worse than just the cold.

People sleeping over the heat vents on the streets of Des Moines

Or huddled in tents in those make-shift campsites along the river.

Men and women wrapped in sleeping bags stretched out in the doorways of Paris.

Or along the Canal St. Martin in cardboard shelters.

The homeless. The clochards.

They are cold.

Mind-numbing, bone-chilling cold.

Cold that defines life...or death for some.

I light the fire laid on the hearth,

The logs crackle and burn.

I ignite the gas heater and roll it closer.

Its blue flames dance.

Instant warmth for me.

Who warms the others?