Now, at first light, the windows shimmer pale on pale. It snowed all night and it will snow all day, and the sky is the color of north.

I cannot see the cove from my house, but the cove is close by, it lives down the street and around the corner, the cove is as round as a silver coin, and I see it in my thoughts under the whispering snow.

The quiet of snow is like the quiet of fresh bread cooling on a rack. It breathes to itself, it creaks and crackles, softly, softly.

If I were standing outside I would lift my face into the flakes and I would be lonely because snow always turns me lonely. Even when the hill is filled with sledders, even when the pond is filled with skaters, I am by myself when the snow is salting my face.

This is why I wanted to be an Arctic explorer when I was a little girl. I would be lonely but I would have a dog.

Being a poet is the closest I came. It is the loneliest job I have ever done.

This is why I am talking about snow.