The snows this winter seethe.They stand in dark drifts as tall as a man.They eat the light.Marooned indoors, the children playby the window little games to pass the time:Old Maid, pinochle, whist. A night like this,the cold has weight. Branches groan beneath it.Ice creaks, too thick to crack.The snow falls clean and sharp,slicing sideways into anything alive.Small shadows edge the tree line—mink or skunk, seeking shelter from the wind.Inside, the fire blazes, candy glitters in a leaded dish.Dolls, rocking chair, checkerboardseem part of a slow explosion.Everything moves without moving.In the glass, each child has a twinalready standing on drifts, beckoning, beckoning them.Don’t go outside, they imploreone another. We would have to kissblack blooms from your cheeks. We wouldhave to remove the dear perishedfingers and toes. But the snows, the snowsbeg to be tramped, to be flattened to angels,rolled into balls. The children are putting onfur-lined gloves, woolen scarves.They are grasping the hemsof stiff overcoats and won’t let them go.Don’t cry, they absolve. Don’t you know?When it’s cold enough, the cold burns.One by one, the children slip out the door.They know when it’s their turn,it’s their turn.