Bitter cold wind, out of the frozen North, icy, wavy air pounding on tender skin,
Fingers dry, so dry, so cold, so stiff unable to grasp keys, or steering wheel with sure sensation.
Layers of clothes we pile on top of ourselves and still you sneak through every little space
Whip our scarves around; send our hats sailing and we running to recapture them
The mad dash to shelter from the house to car or bus stop or train station or plane
What do you want with us? What did we do to you? When will you leave us in peace?