In the Dead of Winter

Written by: Krista Kurth

In the dead of winter,  
as the melted snow turns 
to ice, it is so cold
the rocks have teeth
and the logs perched 
above the river dangle 
long locks of icicle hair
in front of their faces
like teenagers hiding 
their eyes from the world. 

As the Earth’s numb breath 
passes over, even the canal 
covers itself with a single 
opaque sheet etched 
with crystal veins and 
ripples frozen in place 
that catch and distort 
the reflections of the trees 
in the faded light like 
an old leaded window.

Nothing escapes its bite. 
It blows its bitterness across 
the wide water and chomps 
at the edges of the icy shore, 
shattering it into thousands 
of glistening shards 
that rhythmically clink 
together like chandeliers 
swaying in an empty room 
with open windows.