My bike is covered in snow. My hands freeze as I glide down 7th East, and I cry - not out of the joy of riding my red bicycle, but from the stinging cold.
The furnace no longer breathes fire, but the icy North Wind.
Snow sneaks into the space between my sock and skin, a previously impregnable fort invaded by the winter's gift.
I love the way snow looks, smells, falls, sounds. It's a Christmas staple, and from Black Friday to New Year's Day, I welcome that precipitation. It's the three months after that I can barely stand.