Yield

I love the cold,
relentless and indifferent.
I love it the way I love an enraged black bear,
close but not penetrating or crippling.
I love when the sun is perched
low in a miasmal sky.
The stasis of life and death.
The ancient brooding of the deep.
Deep cold can only be yielded to.
You can stamp your feet at it,
you can flap your arms around your body,
like a ruffed grouse,
but you will not best it. 
In the end you can only let your prayer
drift with the frozen mist,
and marvel,
at the crystal sun’s majestic cold.