Wood smoke on a frosty February air, Let it drift through my window and interrupt my thoughts, Tinted with the frozen taste of forest mildewβwhere you once held my hand when we stepped over a fallen log. Red wine head ache beat my temples raw, And the heater rattles in the walls so I toss and turn. I do not think of you often; but now I do, wrapped up in yellow blankets and breathing deep the snow falling air. The ping, ping, ping of an over fulled drain, it beats a metronome against the aluminum roof next door. I sleep with the window open to catch the sent of burring birch, or hardened pine, I warm my senses and drift away to a time before February froze the air.