Time is distance, but forgetting is closer at hand. Stick words to your windows, obscure the view, that is already vanishing behind you.

Take that snow, see how it falls over another year, of time and of distance. That is a poem too, hard and cold to the hand. Frostbitten words nip at you even as they stem the larger pain, don't they?

Bear that as delicately as you have borne love. Be a squirrel, warm the words with your body. Eat those kernels as food on these bleak days and hold a few as seed for next spring.

...

Then distant in time, for time is distance, you can unpeel these wind gnawed and water blurred words and sow them with your flowers or feed them to the swans.

Just write!