That hill’s hard core of yellow stone held steady at 43 degrees
all year round, just warm enough in winter to work in
      shirtsleeves
stacking the milky slabs of ice sawed from the lid of the river
and sledged uphill with horses, then blanketed with sawdust
to hold the cold, to keep the past from trickling into
      the present.

In summer, it was a pleasant place to set up chairs and sit
      and talk,
the family together, the cool breath of the cave at their backs,
as they looked down over the roofs of farmhouse, barn, and
      pig-shed,
down on the brown and steaming river, maybe chipping a
      piece of ice
from last year’s winter to cool their lips, gone dry from stories.

Then dusk would come, and shadows stepped from behind
      the trees
and started uphill, and it seemed the cave would breathe a
      little cold
back into the darkening valley whence all cold would come,
and brushing sawdust from their arms, carrying their
      kitchen chairs,
they’d walk downhill, stiff-legged from sitting, hungry
      for supper.