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.