In this heaven of warm I yield, am freight carried in sleep while the made world accosts the windowpane crystalled with frost like fire. What made us be body, by which to touch, to converse, to build, gave also desire to heat each other by. And so I spin praise, dream-frail and naked in our dark clutch. Though ice broods near, our breathing drowns its din. I cannot complain in this hour of skin stained warm beneath sputtering candlelight.
Shadows leap the ceiling's length, quickened skeins, spent wick, thickening wax, depleted spire.
Our four walls stand taut with the weight of night, the windowpane crystalled with frost like fire.