© Glen Sorestad
Crisp October
Morning
I step out into
a world of frost—
not a thin hint, but layered
as a long neglected freezer,
exaggerating each grass blade.
A delicious shiver of sky,
a raucous clamour of snow geese
writing their own delicate poem,
wavering white lines on blue.
My breath jets words I
can not call back, or even
recognize, as I butt my way
against the morning cold.
Mallards in the
park have
paddled the sub-zero night
and kept open a patch of pond,
the rest skinned with ice.
