Armchair Zen

In these, our bitter days of winter,
As bare trees stand, their feet cold in the snow,
Above our heads icy northwinds blow,
And from our eaves hang frozen crystal splinters.

Let us then retire to our rooms,
Where we’ll sip hot tea and clasp our hands,
And know the warmth of love still stands
As overhead the winter rage looms.

No embers of wood, nor burning coal,
As the fire radiates its heat,
Upon our faces, upon our feet,
Can, as the heart, warm the soul.