Wintersing

Wintersing


The frozen pond is snowed solid now,
a smooth shroud for the ice beneath.
If we had shovels, we could clear a space
and skate, end to end, side to side,
like we swayed to the music
during Summersing.

Back and forth, our blades
would riffle the ice like canoe wakes
or breast strokes.
Fish gaze up
like they did in June,
icy surface unbreakable, the other skaters gone.

The deck is covered in ice,
railings frosted,
roof quilted white as a bride’s bed.
Windows etched, grass hidden and brittle,
road ruts rough as a cheese grater.
Deer nose deep on warmer mornings.

The iron stoves are cold and flameless,
mousetraps lurk in the bathrooms
where the water keeps silent
as the elk, religious in their wanderings.
Brown birds chant, a gusting wind hoots.
Nowhere is the snow unbroken.