trapped in ice

the cattails shape-shift
into clouds

Sound travels more slowly in the cold.

Over the next four years, some words may freeze before they leave our mouths.

Growing up during the Cold War

we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.

Blue blood

belongs only to those with no need for veins, like a wanderlust that starts where the highway ends.

The way my skin cracks in winter

maybe I’ll molt.

The forests of my earliest childhood

are evergreen.

mountaintop pond

the blind dog lapping
at her reflection

ice rings

as if some logger felled a tree of ice

stripped of all focus

I don’t notice the hunter standing in a tree

ephemeral pond

the trees wear icy collars at the high-water mark

skunk cabbage

each avoiding the others’ hot, foul breath

wood frog egg-mass

anchored to a projecting twig a gleaming ring