Softly, the winter snow shows Elysium,
a reflection from above, below,
inside this vessel, a sacrarium,
this gently sleepy and holy home.
The slow smoke from the chimney
rises without a breeze rifting it.
The warm light upon the snowy
floor alone warms my visage.
The threshold to this humble house
is cracked, bowed, and warped shyly.
The only visitors it's ever allowed
were the lord and his family.
The windows sitting atop their sills
were glazed in dust and soot, and bugs.
Long since clean, they accept their locale,
sleeping with the house in quiescence.
A pile of stoney logs lays near the door.
As they rest, they seek solidarity;
waiting for their brothers to be scorched
in order to warm their masters reverently.
Tall trees and walls of bushes line
the limits of the house's lot.
Watching, they will begin to howl in time
as the wind starts to perk up.
Will I ever go inside
this softer world than mine?
Or will I travel along the road
until my feet can't bear my load?
I turn away into a cold, blue night
illuminated by the gentle moonlight.
I start to stutter slowly away, shivering,
starving myself of silence, peace, and conclusion.
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