The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
--from 'Frost at Midnight'; Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1798)
Secret ministry of frost... my reply found prior to turning to bed warmed with the scent of pooled auburn. What I can never hold. Through a window seeing broad gestures of landscape contoured by snow, dense weightlessness of spacial medicine for frozen anatomy, somber spheres bordered by the original endless age and adorned with gravity of moonlets and grounded starlight shining by their inconsistency as shadows deepen off back into the singular realm of presence. This is a Titan world wrung from elements momentarily ecstatic until the earlier known code of night and always, that orbital distance away from the sun. My musings, or the trailing there of, without visitor, without conjuring grate and projecting flame, only the unmeasurable mystery of planetary blue and the framed guest of myself...