Deep Freeze
Late January
and the sky is an icebox.
The rind of a once fat possum
litters a park path,
It is not a place to linger.
Ice pools gather,
the water inside them
grows grinding teeth.
The jelled imprints
of long dead leaves
lace concrete,
smear the soil.
Outside the city park,
hospitals and churches
fume in snowy flurries.
Walkers thread their way through
trod-down streets.
Still too early to tell
if the land can be born again,
yet we trust the slow march
of these climatic moments,
wait, for we must,
for loitering shadows
to throw the dice.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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