A snowy day brings us rarely close, in domestic confine caught, the sizzle-slip of small hail sliding from the eves in beaded curtains until beamed rainbows ring us round and the canceled day is filled with more than light. When hot coffee whistles in its pipping pot the day displayed seems open to us and closed to the humming hustle of all the outer world at once. We two consider our chance to read, catch up, make patterns of extended feet entwined with layabout mirth on ruffled covers confused as ski trails. We look outside and see, beyond the pane fogging at our faces, how hurrying snow comes, obscuring all but us, our inner vision's variableness-- the vast differentials of our too-human light that kindles immanent behind kind eyes that view their refuge of two complete, and with how steady, how stroking gaze swim eons in an hour, two who know eternity in a kiss where wedded lips consign and keep all aspects of their love. Wrapped in whiteness as within a cloud, rosy nose to nose and breath to breath we breathe, the wildered world beyond our known globe of filial affection left unseen, as if within the whitewashed castle walls of a lightbulb we two commenced in love, and in love continue-- blind to ugly outer circumstance, blares and scares, seeing only, touching only, our mutual hearts' intimate disturbances, whose orbit is our sum. Love doesn't come rowdy and crowding into our lives, but steals with silver stealth into living eyes and lips, and with softest brush writes its miracle in silent subtleties, limning argent inches of moonlight on the soft receptive pages of each heart's bound book. Love leaves its milky trailings like a sigh traced in innocence upon a cheek by a child's finger warbling blameless upon her parent's chest. Love is not made alone by Nature's doing, though it moves among Nature's byways and shades, lingers along Nature's lemon lanes at sunset, or, more gorgeously, more fully and less fitfully, strolls boldly below each midnight moon whose cheshire sliver catches in a maple branch. Quick as mischief, you slip the sash up, smiling wild as the shivering air invades, and laughing grab me back, and, simple, look upon the winter swirl outside. And so we hold hands at the now open window, letting large new snow touch and dissolve on our upturned faces, feeling our heat and the cool emptiness of other lives beyond our small life together. Here we clasp, here we feel each peck and speckle on our hands and hearts, two renegades who await each day with sly patience, nor rush to tomorrow when snow today stops the clock, and time is made all quiet as an owl asleep.