crackles on the radio
frost and ice (not snow) but ice.
The air tings sharp—like rigid glass—
The clouds are porcelain,
the breeze a wet snap snipping by
promising the things that will never
Tonight the wood-burn stove
purrs as liquid flames turn brown
to grey…and cold as people snore
nestled in mountains
soft and blanket fuzzing-warm
promising the cold that never
The wake-thought as we wake
and shaking feel the quake of ice
that’s particled to window panes.
The rigid floor-boards groan
as we scamper—barefoot (why?!)
to see the maybe snow that never
nestles silent on the ground
in heaping humps of snow (not ice).
The hallway fills with whoops and squeals
as snow-knife air invades
through the gaping front-porch door
promising a day that never