My breath pushes out in front of me

like the musings of a juvenile dragon

not yet grown to fire.

I pretend that you can know

how cold it is

by how far out the mist extends.

I suspect, though,

there’s more to it than temperature:

relative humidity and such.

The skin of my face tingles

by the time I reach the shed

and see the side of the horse’s face

speckled with flecks

of his breath

at minus thirty wind chill.

By the time I’ve finished

the feeding

the watering

and the shoveling,

my fingers

have moved past the tingling

into that mingling of aching and numbness.

I haven’t walked in such winter

since I was a child

without wondering what it would be like

to freeze to death.

I know

that drifting away from God

is much like this:

a stepping out

into a vast emptiness

and that last sting of conscience

when we either turn back

to the hearth of faith and love

or walk numb and lifeless

in our own tracks.

H. Arnett

2/11/11