8
January 24th, 2014

How did they know? Those farmers…
How did they know of the frigid and bluster
Of this year’s winter?
The proof is in the pudding
And the pudding is cold as stone
And hard as ice.
Cold.
Doesn’t even seem the right word for this feeling.
And the perpetual snow drifts across the roads,
Like snakes of white powder
Side-swiping between the tires and biting at them,
Turning them to ice in an instant.
And the cats eyes of taillights
Glaring behind as if angry of the cold as well.
I’m tired of it too, but my car is warm,
Mostly, and I’m willing to go around in it.
But don’t ask me to get out and brave the frozen wasteland.
My only consolation remains that
The days do grow longer,
And soon will come the crocuses.

 – Sarah ><>

7
January 22nd, 2012

The ice came and took its victims.
Freezing and snapping and catching,
Holding us hostage until it so pleased.
But the sun came and rescued us.
And in response, the ice melted,
Exhaling a mist into the sky –
At night, obscuring the sights
And refracting the lights so they scatter
And blend and flood as much as the water.
Red and white and yellow and green,
Bright and obtrusive,
Tainting the scene.
But the lake is near untouched
With the haze rising above
And weaving its way through the waterlogged trees.
They never drown.
And the train awakens and the white lights
Between the cars like buck teeth
Flash and pulse and faster and faster
And gone.

 – Sarah ><>