it's always colder somewhere else

Today with no surprise 

the windchill sinks to 50 below. 

The mailman slouches up the walk, 

head down, the way we all learn how 

to walk on this far edge. 

You write to say how cold it must be here, 

and thank whatever gods you have 

this weather's north of you, far north. 

 

But we say it too— 

it's always colder somewhere else. 

We praise our plows and furnaces, 

fall back again on what we know: 

there are no last words, 

and what we speak of 

is neither storm nor chill, 

but what would happen if all letters stopped— 

that other winter, directionless, 

colder than ice, deeper than snow. 

 

[Mark Vinz {1942- } 'North of North', from Minnesota Gothic]