Reflections on the Front Port After the Ice Storm

Water trickles down the drainpipe –

   an icy mountain river with no

glassy lake to fill

   just my mud dappled yard.

Birds again awake, call and

   flit from branch to porch rail, in search;

reminding us all continues: the cycle of a thousand

   seasons is not altered by frozen water.

Bushy branches resilient and still

   living bounce back, their

greening, two days interrupted,

   now resumed.

Miniature icebergs punctuate grass

   that was not yet fully wakened –

enlivened now by chill; does it want

   hibernation or warming sun?

No choice, we must take what comes.

Sirens – distant and near – attend

   unplanned incidents: a fall,

a blockage, lost breath. And equally the

   invincible who moved a power line a moment

before too late remembering that fifth grade science

   lesson.

My birthday spirea fared better

   than the fence that must be mended;

falling branches do not aim kindly.

   No matter, after eggs and toast,

I’ll get my chainsaw: nature’s might

   now melting and its minions kindling.