Ice storm

Cracking limbs

and splintered boughs

in the night.

She hears the shimmering

crystals fall but

never thinks to catch them

in her palms.

They make a narrow

escape and lock up  

the house as the transformer

flares, a lightning

strike. 

Later she  views the silvery

photographs.  Beauty.

If you only look –

she never had.

Hindsight cuts a clean swath

and so bright.

Just another New England winter

and your coat

won’t do.

She shovels a narrow path

to feel her way through,

as the snow flies:

she winces, covers up,

never quite seeing it

for what it is.  The time will

pass and cover over

and over,

sealed in like so much glaze.  She never did

see things for what they were

when the snow began to stick.