After the Ice Storm

Crabapples inorbed in ice, a delicate

clattering of twigs—everything invited

sunlight to decorate the day

like clinquant jewelry. I snipped

an old coneflower and tore its stem

from the clear casing, perfect as a bird’s

pneumatic bone and with no bubbles

whatsoever. I wanted so badly to eat it—

it would crunch and taste of winter.

But I gave it to my sister, who held

it up to her eye like a rare spyglass

and tucked it in the freezer, where it broke.

For two days we did nothing but skate

the length of our street and watch

a cardinal collect the crystal fruit—

the only two red things in sight.

Trees knelt under the weight of the ice.

Powerlines fell. But everything else

was made weightless by the still light

and the silence, which were strangely

             identical, surrounding the air.