Wrong

Something is clearly wrong with me, you know.
I'm happy in a place frozen with cold,
Where nothing seems but everything is old,
And all of it is coated with grey snow,
Where crêches lit in profile cast a glow
Across a landscape delicately rolled
Like pastry dough, flattened without a fold
And underneath the snowdrifts cornfields grow.
How am I happy here, where farms are king,
The city is a college town upsized,
And not by much, and lacks variety?
You wouldn't think it was my sort of thing.
But there is something here that I have prized:
My love. With her I stay here happily.