A crash outdoors
woke us this morning. A limb
fallen from too much ice.
On the ground, a shining crust
of snow. Ice-misted trees.
Just outside our window,
star clusters of pine needles spread
in ice-explosions; winter fireworks.
We walk beneath ice-weighted pine limbs.
Each needle, sheathed in ice,
sets off white-gold sparks
reminding us of how alive we feel
in this new world.
Our pond, a frosted shield,
still harbors fish. Beneath
the translucent surface, small amber ovals
flare with the muted glow
of the last moments before sunset.
On the deck, our metal owl
wears a dripping crown of ice.
A branch cracks
like the burst of a Roman candle
falling onto our lawn the color
of the moon, spiraling snowdust
into the January sky
I find myself thinking
of the hidden earth beneath this snow,
the invisible graces that see us through
as we walk this landscape -
pines, poplars, our once-familiar house
penciled with fire.