This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

If it was the warmth of the sun, and not its light, that produced this operation, it would follow, that, by warming the water near the fire about as much as it would have been...

But one day you’re going to wake up to the smell of a friend making burnt toast and warm coffee, and you’re going to smile with relief knowing you made it. Knowing somebody found ways...