Like ice before morning
frozen on the porch steps,
unbreakable skin, hardening
over the heart, whiter
than quiet, colder than fire.

Just the other day
I saw the snow’s soft
stars cover the lawn,
their lithe floating,
each feathery crystal luffed
and loosened by the briefest
puff of air, lighter
than water, slightly
brighter than sunlight.

Then nightfall’s
sharp drop to chill,
every droplet etched
into its own motionless curves,
sprigs of grass sharpened,
a leaf’s brittle skeleton,
and the porch steps glassy
in the solid now.

When the water will run again
in trickles along bricks,
streams against rocks,
or how long
the melting will last,
there is no telling.



January Pearson teaches in the English department at Kaplan University. Her work has appeared in Gargoyle Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Watershed Review, Summerset Review, Atlanta Review, Four Chambers Press, Timberline Review, Chiron Review, Scintilla Press, and Modern Haiku.

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