clicking on the mouse and hearing it squeak loudly

taking it one day at a time until the end

slowing down and speaking with few words as lost crafts

dishing out keys to go into the big town flat

withdrawing to the cellar for the warm hearthstead

thwarting fast flows of time when the bells strike midnight

waking up to the sound of glee from church singers

harking back to the days when things meant more than none

writing without overly long words from the south

blinking into the sleep of the wintry season

waking once again to the sound of the hardware

hearing howling north winds begging to come inside

starting this and that yet seldom getting things done

noting that things could have taken a much worse turn

coming back to the deep-rooted kerf-inklings

beholding a day for my last living forebear

settling down with some more workouts in telling-up

looking at the windows frosted with ice once more

turning on the ambered hearthstead once more for heat

reading more about the folk-made know-how of yore

bearing down on one of the year's sleepiest nights