They say you grow used to it, chipping ice and driving slowly, bundling up and waiting for a hesitant spring. But I never have. So it settles in, slips silently invading every crevice. I wake to everydays, routine coffee and routine routes.

I get stuck behind the street-sweepers of winter, the ones who don't clean up garbage, but clean up something heaven sent. And maybe this, too, is heaven sent--this winter of the soul.

But I don't want to grow used to it.