On this gray Friday
Ice snow boulders line the road;
Sky is but one cloud.
Across the white field
Small dog yaps on the driveway;
Barn hens remonstrate.
There is no stream left;
All hints of it are frozen.
It waits in darkness.
The snow banks grow high
Crashing fences, climbing trees.
How far will they go?
Old tree stump now hides,
Covered with a white blanket
Encircled by pines.
Billowing gray clouds,
Steamy, warm, vaporous
Erupt from my mouth.
Long slender brown twigs
Stick out from the deep iced snow--
Wait transformation.
Clear frozen foot prints
Lead me forward on the road...
Then disappear.
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