Almost Thaw

She waves to the engineer
as an abbreviated freight train passes by—

heading southwest. She’s running
northeast now on snow

and slush. Could be quicksand
in spots, could be something

to complain about. But
she’s already said “hi”

to a XC skier and a couple
of women with dogs. Already made it this far

nearing the north end
of Lake of the Isles

without getting frostbitten
or falling down. May as well lean

in and call it
January bliss.

Heavy Metal Detox

These are not

tears. A wind
chill emotion erupts

without warning. Who
leaves their dog

outside a café
on a day like today?

Two-inch thick
ice will last

longer than many
relationships.

As I peel
on and off

layers of peace,
another January

gets sealed
shut. Another recipe

scrolls down
the side of a wall

outside a venue
that sells

no food. And these words
will not

be sung indoors.

Wind Chill Civil Dawn

Beautiful to watch
from a well-sealed
window. Nothing

gets taken
for granted. Feels like

a drop
in ambient thought.
The essential reveals

itself against a pale blue
cloudless sky. Another day

where hope just might burst
through burns awake
to break convection’s hold.

LaSalle Avenue

Ice bevels
on the sidewalks where property
owners forget what they own. Pedestrian
and unlanded, I perform
penguin walks for too many blocks.
And the sun—the sun, it taunts
the frozen landscape
to no effect.

(Day 3,014)

Beware ice beneath
the door mat. She
may knock you

down with newly retrieved
self-confidence. When it’s this cold,
the surreal slips inside

cracks in doors, walls,
boots, skin. Water is
life or death—depends

on perspective. More
life, she thinks, when she keeps
her balance across thresholds.

South 13th

Each time I look down
that street it’s another U-Haul
truck that captures my eye

for minimal detail. Dead
of winter, dead center
of the block, this month—

someone gets up and moves
away. Or it’s someone else moving
in. The weave tightens

around messages that near
miss home.

Black Ice

I will map my avoidance a story
above fear. Frozen
or thawed, it’s got fangs. Transparent
or glazed, it coats the edges
of my motion toward makeshift tunnel
openings. Burrow or bite, the shiny
isn’t always so sweet.