In the Dead of Winter
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.
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