11-25 Before Dawn

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.

Before Dawn

 

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.

 

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