ON A FRIGID MORNING
They hang from the eaves like spikes
The fingernails of old man winter,
Translucent tapered icicles,
A warning to stay inside.
A blast of Arctic air
Has caged us in our rooms
Hoping the grid won’t fail,
Fearful of roadside breakdowns.
Some say our end is fire
But we fear more the ice.
We know how to deal with desire:
Hypothermia’s not so nice
Though if one must really go
There are worse conveyors than snow.
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