It's dark, and I don't know if snow is falling yet up here in the north country. It's very cold, though--my phone says 8 degrees--and I can hear Steve downstairs stoking the stoves.

The drive up yesterday was windy and increasingly frigid, and when I arrived the forest was creaking and groaning, a stiff and painful sound like bones rubbing together.

I've got a poem up on Vox Populi this morning, "Home Burial," one of a series that borrows titles from other writers and then uses them differently. It's a summer poem, so it feels odd to see it now, in deep winter. But perhaps the Frost reference is winter enough.