coffee’s made, tea-water’s on
and here a glazed pane of iridescent frost
stroked by a ghost-etcher’s point
struck with silver and laced with light,
its fern-frond gravure
glistens on a clear silicon plate
and there a postage stamp of blue
in an otherwise stratocumulus dome
marks a bit of sky beyond the frost-etcher’s art—

window in a window, frame within a frame,
thought within a name

the furnace grunts,
its blower hums before its burner sparks
and warm air gushes from a grate
as if a house might warm its cupped hands
to mitigate the lethal silence of a still cold place
as we sometimes hunch and blow to mitigate
a frigid shadow stillness: a blast of breath
from our own deep furnace in winter
while we wait

by Jim Culleny

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