Winter blew in... into the kitchen where we huddled by the sink... sinking in the memories that drained us of where we might have been... been rather, last year, or sometime when. When did we get like this? This fixation on the broken. Broken shingles over head where the wind and cold come in force. Forced? as we are to live like children clinging we might have said to the hem of hope. Hope they told us is the mother of the ignorant.. step-kin to Mr. and Mrs. Invention. Invention is in our lineage as well. We'll break habits of old seasons by necessity maybe with a whole new set of blues.