(from Odes 1.9)

Look how the snow drifts
       flare on the Soracte’s slopes
—there, straining branches
       barely sustain their white
load. Locked in ice, streams
       buckle, send cracks
stuttering over the winter’s sharp still.

Unclasp this cold, stir
       flame in the embers, pile
the hearth with fat logs.
       Bring out a bottle warm
with a summer four years
       gone, wine that grapes
pressed from the sunlight on Sabine hillsides.