Short poem for a long winter

 

 

This is why             we bundle: freezing rain, a loss of pitch. The accuracy
of this ink white sheet. Forecasts                     one might reach by water.

Schools closed, pajama days; suspension                              of a letter.
Our small children                      abide. This day, separated

by music, returns    to earth. Street branches, glisten  ; hibernating
local rabbits, squirrels. Where                birds, forestall                             . What shadows

echo   beyond this scene             of my fifty-third yule. Winter, mostly. That first

a snowfall record    , and here, barrage of wet snow             , squall
and deep freeze. Old stories, signal                  heaven, hearth, the proportion

of roaring fires. Certain locals                powerless. Sleet-frescoed glass, prosody
of what might come. We will not sleep. Each sentence here           a gift.