Walking through the cold on the streets of New York one might wish for a fire.
Personally, it ignites a of remembrance of other short days, an act of reckoning with the years that have come before as well as imaginations of the future.

You cannot put a Fire out—
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan—
Upon the slowest Night—

You cannot fold a Flood—
And put it in a Drawer—
Because the Winds would find it out—
And tell your Cedar Floor—

—Emily Dickinson (#530)