coldness

I know some of you actually LIKE it, but I despise coldness. I never want to see another piece of ice, not even in drinks. Remember, Dante encased Satan, in hell, in a block of ice. Hell is cold, not hot. The idea of being stranded on Pluto is just about the worst fate I can imagine. And if you want a wonderful poem about just how awful coldness is, read Edward Arlington Robinson's "New England." He captures it perfectly, and contrast icy New England to the "lyric yeast" of tropical climates. Give me a tropical island ANY DAY. I'll take hurricanes as the price to pay. But there was a great sign today. I stepped out on the porch this morning (fifteen degrees, natch) and saw a splendid young faun right beside the porch steps. She looked at me, I her, for quite a while, then she silently, daintily skipped away. I believe in omens and signs and synchronicities and come from a long line of superstitious women . . . so that faun, it was as if in a dream.