Broken Season
At four years old
Nate called this
the broken season.
Slightly rotted, stale snow
stays and stays
and our house is in the mountain’s shadow from noon on.
A fringe of icicles hangs from the gutters,
dripping all day,
growing longer all night.
During an ice storm once
I curled around a sleeping baby
as a white pine
came slowly
heavily
through the roof,
stopping as a chandelier just above the kitchen counter.
Tonight
I lay in bed
my thoughts running down
dreary cul-de-sacs of
longing and self-defeat,
pulling at the skirts of a universe
that says
What are you crying about?
I’ll give you something to cry about.