By Degrees

Spilling from the lintel, a pitcher saves the ice from anonymity. Rafters creak, the sounds of winter rattle through the cabin eerily. Memories of dead and gone, whistles of wind, the monotony whispers and drags through the days like a chilling lament. Hours burn so slowly, like embers refusing to ebb, reminiscences stutter and fade, no lasting testament. Evenings and mornings now bleed with the same deep regret; he's losing all feeling, as cold as cold can get.