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Who unto man His Son hath given;
While angels sing with tender mirth,
A glad new year to all the earth.
Blessings To All Who Enter Here
My furnace went out on Friday. When I checked the tank, it showed empty, so I ordered a delivery.
It arrived this morning.
Plan B was the fireplace. So I ran through the readily available firewood.
Attempting to restart the furnace, after some inspection, I discovered that the reason it stopped is because the transformer has an open primary.
I guess Plan C will be in effect until Tuesday. It involves kerosene.
Meanwhile:
COLD!
It has a bitter bitingness, that turns all things to metal,
And colors freeze to shades of gray, and restless dust must settle.
It creeps in every nesting spot, like damp upon the soul,
My grasp becomes most tenuous. I'm sure I'll lose control,
As every surface seems to lose its rough and gripping texture,
The world is slipping into ice. At least, that's my conjecture.
Cold has orbited round again, to shade our hope, and kill it.
It slowly inches inward toward the soul, to try and chill it.
Darkness seems to last, and last, with daylight wan and bleak,
And every dawn a cheerless one, as cold light shows its streak.
The cold seeps in, its metal-gray sleek hardness like a gun,
To stifle hope and joy. We freeze instead of run.
For where is there to run to? Even rivers have been stopped.
And even sheltering leaves of trees have all been crisply cropped.
The fangs of Winter's frozen teeth hang down like smiles of looming death,
And frozen remnants of one's life condense with every breath.
The first time that I shivered I was ready to shout, "Hold!
The years that I've seen Winter, I recall, and this is getting old!"
I'm disagreeable most days, but I'll nod if you happen to mention,
To the first poor soul who says to me, "It's as cold as the Devil's intention!"
NicknamedBob . . . . January 18, 2006
Oh, Bob...I include you in my prayers.
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Lovely, Bob!
I hope that you get your furnace fixed soon!
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