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.