The sleepers wake in January
and wring their white hands.
They turn to each other,
pale and damp, and say,
did you feel that? A sort
of wave in the air,
a plunge in the temperature?
Maybe we dreamed it.
Maybe it will go back
to how it was. Maybe, even,
it’s still the same and we know
it will go back. Yes, we’re sure
of it. Let’s stay up a little while
and wait for that and then
we can fall again to sleep
under the warm cover.
So they sit up and wait
until the air cracks even colder.
They shrug and go back
to sleep, dreaming
they will always have enough cover
to stay warm, dreaming
of spring’s return,
of fire on the hearth at home,
all the way to Beyond The Cold,
back to the Used To Be;
when they do not wake,
their dreams having been
trumped by the cold,
they are eventually pulled
from their beds and tossed
alive and unbelieving into
newly built pyres
of an ancient design.

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