Icebound

It is a rebuke to the ordinary progress of days,

One after another – the rapturous pastels, the icy winds,

The unseasonable warmth:  all the different mornings

That greet me when I do my Tai Chi on the deck.

But this one is different – everything shut up in ice,

Bound as tight as a fist – the door on my car will not budge,

And gravel and mulch and concrete alike all

Iced the same.  As good as dead.  Icebound.   

Time stops during this interregnum; nothing moves.

And light glints on everything, sharp winter light,

Light that holds the blindness at bay,

That hones the visible to a keen edge.

I imagine that I can see to the top of Satulah,

Miles away, in its lofty gleaming solitude;

To the very top:  bright rime on Satulah –

Hallelujah!