The corners of my memory are peeling. I know that there have been warm days in the past, and they are likely to appear in the not too distant future. But right now it is still shivery when I slog outside to bring the chickens food and water that does not clunk when you drop it. 

Last weekend I took them some nice leftovers but they were unmotivated to come down from the dormitory so those clumps of broccoli and carrots still lay frozen on the ground. Even the sharp beak of a chicken cannot peck through rock. 

My sister lives in Boston and sends me accounts of ten foot long icicles hanging from her roof and the luge track that connects her door to the car. She has lived there for over forty years so it is not as much a shock as it is a test of endurance. 

I suppose on some level those of us who are weary of snow know we will survive. But the awareness drifts from the center of our thoughts to the corners. 

A friend wrote this week about the cold season in her marriage. I read and reread her thoughts, and tried to listen well. She and her husband are in my prayers, and I have sent warm thoughts in their direction. But I can no more bid the spring to return to their home than I can melt the bowls of water in the hen house.  

Yet I am reminded that cold is not in itself anything. It is the absence of heat. So maybe the affection I feel for a couple who are caught in a chill can raise the thermometer a degree or two. 

I'm willing to try.