I cherish memories of winter mornings on the farm-
awakening to the sweet smell of hickory smoke
escaping from the old wood cook-stove-
and to the aroma of frying bacon, perking coffee
and biscuits baking-
aromas that would waft up to my unheated attic room-
a room in thermal equilibrium with the outside air.

Outside, a winter wonder land-
naked tree limbs festooned with new fallen snow-
and a howling wind-
a wind that seeking entry would expend
itself against the frosted window panes-
frost that formed like delicate feathers from
my exhalations-
exhalations that would appear as smoke
spreading throughout the room.

Snuggling further down into the feather mattress
that surrounded my body like a downy cocoon-
oblivious to the cold and the wind-
and the duty of impending morning chores-
I would, for a few nefariously delicious moments,
again drift away in blissful warmth-
on those winter mornings on the farm.