And watch the window as the rain drips down,
A cup of cocoa in one hand, a bit
Of yet-uneaten cookie, warm and brown,
Just-dunked above the surface in the other.
This is the kind of day for books and lamps,
The phone put down, the blankets piled to smother,
To warm away the winter's drafts and damps.
I wish I could. I really wish I could.
But no, I must go out into the storm
And seek another's, rather than my, good:
My bones feel destined never to be warm.
The day's perfection only lives inside,
But I cannot, despite myself, abide.
