I am an early riser, and years ago, I beheld this, which prompted this poem. On my website, this and others, are in a volume entitled Seasons.
In this dark living room—
at 2° powdery snow
blasts against the picture window
and drifts on the sill. Wind pierces
between the pane’s molecular crevasses,
nicking my cheeks.
Touching the pane,
it crystallizes my fingertips,
stiffens my arm, frosts my hairs,
hardens arteries into blue ice.
As fingers fuse to the window,
my body freezes solid
and my last thought shatters
into hexagonal jags
that blend into white pitch.