In the morning feel the hard frost
Bend brokenness, add ache
To stiff bone and disfigured skin–
The ice in the pail has frozen
In jagged and jumblesome shards.
Note nothing has altered.
The broom leans the same way,
Dust crowds as before, grimy pots
Lend shelter to stiff-legged spiders
Smoke is the memory of fires past.
The ice is melting from rusted eaves
Where it– the frost– rests at a stretch
And cradles the earth in her low hours
When she hovers on tired axis, tilts in a dream
Stretches and unwinds to another day.
© E. Richardson