There is magic in the air tonight,
call it cold or call it winter.
The thrill of a chill
and the sharpness on your face
making it rosy, and your nose cherry-red.
A seeming black sky
is both zesty and frosty,
stinging a little
like nettles in summer.
These do not itch, though.
They warm with hot chocolate
and cinnamon rolls,
or chicken soup and a steamy bath,
or a warm hearth and comfortable laugh.
There is no fire here,
but the burning wish to go to the cabin,
fish on the ice and hope to catch nothing,
curl up in my sleeping bag
with a warm, wrapped rock
fresh from the edge of the fire.