Ice is here.
Each branch, each twig, each blade of faded grass bathed in crystal —- frozen nature, magical, majestic.

A row of birches
arch to the ground. No boy to swing on these.

Through the night
heavy limbs groan. Downed with the weight of their beauty they crash to the ground.

Technology stops.
Two days of stillness.
Liquid begins.

Suddenly loosened,
tops of trees begin to turn, first this way and then that, displaying their gorgeous crystal tails in the sun. Look at me, look at me!

Drop by drop,
ice is vanquished. Wounds are dressed. Limbs spring back, but not quite. Grass grows, flowers bloom.

Ice will come again.