After an Ice Storm

Even the air seems glazed.

Walking is a series of catches

as if, arms flailing,

I'm juggling my own weight.

My son, in his green boots

and purple, hooded coat

looks like a rip in the glitter.

He's the wild wallpaper peeking through

a tear in this monochrome canvas,

reaching one bare hand

to touch the iced tip of a twig,

the gloved finger of the world.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.