Winter Sleep
Jan 20 2010


I get unobstructed morning sun.
Lying in bed, the ledge
is just above eye level,
so we stare each other down.
Me, summoning the will to close the blind.
The sun, indifferent, blinding
blasting the glass free of frost,
making dust dance
in a shaft of light,
illuminating every flaw
with its merciless probing.

Each day
a little earlier, a little warmer,
this sun is definitely a morning person
— punctual, cheerful
energetic.
I’m not.
So I drop the blind,
roll over,
hold out for snow.

A giant icicle has grown
dangling from the eaves precariously.
It is utterly transparent
as smooth as liquid mercury.
It resembles an unquenchable weed,
fed by sunlight.

Soon enough
it will fall —
a dagger plummeting to earth,
a shattered hologram of ice,
a crash that obliterates sleep.

The first casualty of spring.