The Price of Warmth

The envelope, stark white,

a chill before the winter light.

It sits on the pile,

demanding my attention.

The numbers glare,

bold black against the pale.

So many digits,

a sum that makes me ache.

It's not just gas,

it's the price of staying put,

of turning the dial

when the wind bites hard.

It’s the heat turned down too low,

the breath I see before me,

a cost I can’t quite bear,

this necessary fear.