our discontent

Freezing. Land of cold, ice-coated,

people and animals coated

against ice.

There is a crystal in

a clock, my grandfather said. That is

how they tell time, refracted light and

endless ticking. This is the time of the

crystals.

Snowflake, synonym of singularity

and shining rarity, nature’s best

extraordinary differentiation,

this silent beauty that may kill.

Wasteland of white upon first look, but look

again –the birds whistle their tweeting lives in

reflected sun, and the planet shines back, a beacon

beckoning to the source of life.

Every color vivifies against the

frosted firs, screaming in endless verve at

surviving vivacity, sparkling laughter.

As the night falls, time stops –it’s too

cold for the clocks to tick or the ticks to

clock any prey. All is sweet hibernation,

nation of sleep, yet this is the killing cold.

Clusters of cuddling warmth

in caves and around hearth fires burning

against death, coddling the little ones closer.

Celestial ice shards into

stars and moonlight drips from the gutters.

Fluffed out deer crunch the snow softly,

and a child puffs out a fairy’s dream.