Stuffy sidewalk saddled under. Feet grumble gamble for purchase. It's cold. Puffed-up pedestrians pummel ice and snow, pampered in down or wool or cotton or polyester blend. Crusty snow-angels carved into the milky membrane stretched over everything. Everyone comes out. Everyone is happycold. Rouged hands and faces etched with awe. The landscape is new. The same-old is bright and new. Wünderboden. Our perennial pilgrimage out of doors, out of our front doors. I must say I am hooped and hollared; roped in its white/steely lasso. Brogan is coming over. He's halved. Split open and spread about these conditions. Half happy three times over. Overwhelming to be around in his conditions. Warm melancholy for me. Stuffed in stone on the stove. Bourbon in my green tea. A time for mirrors. Madrigals, icicles, cardinals. Mirrors again I say. Reflection. All your tiny reflections in the tiny grains of frozen water. All my tiny selves showing me myself. A child. One tear for my small self. One tear for the man who wants to return. One for the one who doesn't. None of which are me entirely. Where's Brogan. His swarthy brogue. His hap-hip harpy's tongue. So happy to trudge and trek through untrailed terrain. Titillated even. Not cold for his greed of snow. We're cajoling some winter foxes. Lovely dames demented for our play. We tussle and burn hard for them. We show them their names spelled in the constellations of icicles hanging from the roof. We recede for their giggle/whisper bathroom parlay. Talk ourselves into trojan warriors. Give them the flip and flaunt. Burn again when they've turned to turtledoves. Honey in our hands. My fingers dangle/delve. Pursuing the pink, pursed lips succumbing to my lingers. The music bangs synchronous hammers. Heartbeats aligning to bass. Our animals fighting in our skins. Longing to tear to freedom. Expression through grunt and howl. And then they're off. Our fancy felines. Drank our offerings and hopscotched to the hills. Hollowing our intentions. Hallowing their names in our books. Brogan is simply pealed with his joy. His snowbunny hunter face. He turns to me and slack-eyed brogues, “What did the pirate say when he got his wooden peg-leg stuck in the freezer door?”.

Me with slackjaw, burned and extinguished, “what?”.

“Shiver me timbers!”, he guffaws into his beer.

I'm goaded and gone. Gallant once, now frayed, frozen, and fumbling. Too early for bed I doze. Brogan's lost his inhibition with the television. Yellow yelling jolts me from a slumber. Brogan, bold and bored, is exiting boozedly. To walk courageously. To brave the brash breeze and hunker. A tiny hero. Again alone I crumble on the couch. Raise to the sound of a siren wondering for Brogan. His luck o' the Irish prevents pitfalls. Me stumbling, silly, swallowed. Drunk. Past presentable. Past participle. Done, beaten, sung.