how miles of ice show up when the tide goes out, or . . .
. . . how even the setting sun lacks warmth,
casting a cold white ray of light across the mudflats.
It's best not to dwell on the weather this holiday. When you gaze into your Valentine's eyes, just keep repeating to yourself, "Cold hands, warm heart . . . Cold hands, warm heart," as he strokes your cheek with his freezing fingers. If he complains when you lift his shirt and jam your feet into his warm belly in an attempt to thaw your popsicle toes, think of me. Wait. That didn't come out right. I mean to say, if you're in a winter wasteland this Valentine's Day, you're not alone.
Stay warm, gentle readers.
Dinner last night: barbecue chicken, steamed veggies (potatoes, zucchini, carrots)