This winter promises to be
one for the record books, like
1978 when the garage collapsed
under the snow and ice.
We’re going to suffer each time we
step out of the house and reach for
the thin newspaper in its sheer
near break our necks on the
driveway ice once a day.
Many will cross their fingers each time
they turn the ignition and hear the grind
of frozen iron;
perhaps even break a key off, like
my older brother did in the frail light
of December 1971 when the sky looked
like a brittle pane of glass
ready to break at any second
sending down white shards and
Yesterday, for example,
I found a robin on the back porch
pasted to the cement by the cold.
Its eyes, still open,
thankful for the final lessons
of deprivation and clarity.
Dan Kelty is a high school Spanish teacher in St. Louis where he lives with his two children. He has previously been published in Nimrod, Steam Ticket, Margie, Sleet and other publications.