In a house dull with cold, windows float before us
like openings in a cloud. We stare out, tired from
too much sleep. Our woodpile diminished to slush
and air. Spring, where are you? Winter, like gravity,
a force accepted but poorly understood. Like a river
jockey-jammed with ice, plates pressured into enormous
luminous shells, we fissure. New found seams fragment
into floes. Snow shutting us in all day, saying nothing
as it peers in at our peering out. Don’t look it in the eyes,
you say, you’ll only encourage it. Like sheet music
before the notes are inscribed, we see ourselves
in bars of gray and white. Trees pretend to stand still,
but we know they’re talking about us, how weak
we are, how short-lived. Even the cat shows off,
prancing atop a crust we would fall through. Have fallen
through, bending to pull a sock up from deep within.
Still we dig into winter as it digs into us. Knowing it
is all perception and deception, we go out and face it,
not letting it smell our fear. Today a fox on the frozen
river out in the open more than anything wants to be.
Huge ships of ice anchored off shore. Mittens are small
shields against blowing snow, snow shields trees from
stress and stress shields us from a complete breakdown,
remembering last spring when the lilac believed it
would bloom forever and the porch was full of bees.