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Summer Houses in Winter


Ice is the past tense of water,

is verb condensed to noun, pure speed

contracted to a stasis of glitter,

a brief foam frozen in marble beads,

the memories that canít recede.


It is the practice of winter habits,

of hibernating inhabitants

hoarding the landscape, seeds and nuts,

while the wind scratches, huffs and pants,

and all the leaves are a frosty mint.


The maples creak, seeming to say,

Be hard, be cold in what you know.

The dark pines darken and agree;

clutching their needles, they wonít bow.

The gables on all the houses glow;


icicles stretch like falling figures,

sleek, seasonal bodies of Icarus,

translucence where the sunlight staggers,

and sand, though it slides and slides, canít pass

from the top half of the hourglass.


Michael T. Young



From Transcriptions of Daylight, Rattapallax Press,
© 2000; originally printed in Pivot.  Reprinted by
permission of the author.

Backgrounds by
Little House

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