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11/25/2009 8:30:54 PM

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Mount Kearsarge shines with ice; from hemlock branches 
snow slides onto snow; no stream, creek, or river 
               budges but remains still. Tonight
we carry armloads of logs

from woodshed to Glenwood and build up the fire 
that keeps the coldest night outside our windows.
Sit by the woodstove, Camilla, 
               while I bring glasses of white,

and we'll talk, passing the time, about weather 
without pretending that we can alter it:
Storms stop when they stop, no sooner,
leaving the birches glossy

with ice and bent glittering to rimy ground.
We'll avoid the programmed weatherman grinning 
               from the box, cheerful with tempest,
and take the day as it comes,

one day at a time, the way everyone says,
These hours are the best because we hold them close
in our uxorious nation.
Soon we'll walk -- when days turn fair

and frost stays off -- over old roads, listening 
for peepers as spring comes on, never to miss 
               the day's offering of pleasure
for the government of two.

Donald Hall

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