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.