Into the Cold Months

So, Barbara, this morning I reread the lame thing I wrote yesterday, and it wasn't half bad. Here it is (with some minor changes):

Winter. The house sits on a rise up from the sidewalk. Seven steps more or less (they are tumbled with chunks of snow, having recently been shoveled, so it hard to tell exactly) go up to the front door. Two narrow panels, each with glass insets rounded at the top, together make up this front entrance. One side is open and shows a white flare of light at the top inside corner. On either side are small, decorative light fixtures. Under the fixture on the right is the address plate which read 1554.
On the front of this house are six windows: one to the left of the doors, one above that one, yet another to the right of that and tucked in against the portion of the house that pushes out toward the street. On the right side of the front door are two narrow windows, side by side, and above these, another two. Each is dark except for these last. Bottles are arranged along the center rails. A woman stands at the right side, hand on her hip, looking out. What is she looking at, this woman? Is she waiting for a telephone call from someone close, that they are alright? Is she thinking about a fight she has had with someone, or possibly about someone she has recently met and would like to know better? The cold of the window radiates against her skin. Her breath clouds the glass.
The sky directly above the house is light gray; almost bright, as if lit from inside. Tree branches, heavy with white, show up over the roof and along the side. Across the front, bushes bend down heavily with the coating of snow. The night is still. The woman stays at the window, looking out. She will stay there until the phone rings.

What you wrote about passion? I agree. The world looks brighter, clearer. Passion should be cultivated, nurtured, made part of every day. I agree.

Bob