At 20 below, ice forms
long clear crystalline
fingers that grip frigid eaves,
knuckled talons of winter.
Snow becomes pale grit
light as air, dry as sand,
weightlessly swirling on
western winds.
Tree limbs shatter and crash
with dull thuds onto glimmering
white blankets that cover hardened
ground, splintering into shards.
The sun returns,
an orange blazing fire ball
slung low in the southeast,
and I emerge, thankful,
when the mercury
reaches zero.