This winter Sunday
I was flipping around the internets when I randomly happened upon this old poem.
I’ve probably mentioned this one before at some point, but it’s worth re-mentioning. It’s just one of those fine poetic illustrations of why the thing we call love isn’t the glamorously flimsy attribute we often mistake it for. And it always reminded me of the stories my father would tell of waking up in an old farm house that took a good while to warm up.
