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.

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