Then:

Rushing out the door so you can be the first

to cross that white expanse

hair plastered to forehead, cheeks and nose

and tips of ears prickling with cold,

toes pinched between thick socks and stiff boots

limbs straining under the weight of so many clothes,

fishing snow out of sleeves and cuffs of pants,

but none of it matters because you know

you will be greeted by something sweet and hot and filling

when you go back home.

Now:

Solitary walks in parks

offering respite from blaring advertisements,

street sounds muffled by peaks of soft snow,

cocooned in smells of damp wool and burning wood,

breath hanging momentarily in the air in front of you,

like the thoughts that pass before your mind,

steps quickening as the cold bites down even harder,

spurred on by the promise of something sweet and hot and filling

waiting for you at home.