The cold night borrows body heat as if it were a cup of sugar, yet come the new light of day it returns with honeycomb.
Into the rich tapestry of blue, comes a woven blanket of hearth-spun grey, a comfort to each soul whom dreams upon such icy nights.
A cold night, a lucid moon, heaven's eyes shine in the black as divine watchful mother.
A cold night gives us ever more reason to draw closer to one another, to feel the natural warmth we are born to give.
Frost grew over the windows even as the duvet kept me warm. I watched the ice-crystals grow for a while, allowing my brain to be empty, content to exist and be. The morning would bring the beauty of the ice for sure, that crunch under boot and the bold greeting cold air brings. Yet between now and watching my breaths rise as new white-puffed clouds there will be a very cold night. The kind that only stops at the doors of the well-made houses.
It is the type of coldness that reaches into my bones, as if my heart were a door left wide open to the icy wind, slamming only to open again. The only thing to do is keep moving, keep heading toward home and the steady warmth of the hearth. The sky is rolling blanket of cloud the colour of wet ash, and the ground its dank reflection. Each step becomes a prayer for home as we walk, seeing the light from the doorway in our flickering daydreams, letting it become more real than the stormy night.
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