it gets colder by the day. we put more wood on the fire. cold hands meet to warm each other beneath flannel sheets. the sunbeam electric blue blanket heats up to maximum temperature. there is a holiness in the quiet of an indoor afternoon, the chapel of the livingroom. it gets dark at dinner and time bears little consequence after sunset. we stay awake and watch for spring. curled up together, wrapped in old blankets and sweatered arms, the fire speaks in the crackling of pine sap and the collapse of ash. here is heaven in a dimly lit room, and peace in the slow rythmic warmth of breath.