ECLECTIC WRITER: 1998 ice storm

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Dreaming of the Cyclamens

The city has become a ghost town

lined by houses with icicle beards.

A million diamonds flash in the

headlights of a solitary car.

Tires trapped in a treadmill

spin on ice-embedded roads

in the bone-naked chill

A candle flickers on a windowsill . . .

a remote sign of life — a fragile breath

suspended in the balance of a wick.

Streets have become ice tunnels

as branches surrender to their fate

with a heartbreaking bow

of ice-imprisoned limbs.

A sadness permeates this place,
a muteness floods my ears
and muffles the laughter of the past —
When trees stood tall

and

their branches were alive

we dreamt of softly awakening

to a velvet, chartreuse spring.

The wounds are deep;

and the gashes weep

for the child — untimely torn

from its mother's womb.

To the Ice Storm of 1998

Monday, February 21, 2000

Ice Storm of the Century

a memoir

by:

My mind awakens slowly and I find myself reciting an Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet about fretting in the dark after having looked so long upon the sunlight...

I notice the fire I’d lit before falling asleep is about to subside. The arabesque of the dwarfed flames reminds me of Ravell's "Bolero"- a raging fire, a ballet of flames racing towards self-consumption.

My cheeks are ice-cold; my fingertips confirm that sensation as my mind jumps to yet another thought. What is the connection?

O, yes, I remember. . .

I remember the last kiss I placed on my father's cheek. . . His face was as cold as mine is now. I remember how peaceful he looked in his eternal sleep; yet I had wondered for a split second- if he would wake up when a teardrop touched his cheek as my lips gave him my farewell kiss.

The crackling of some more branches and ice, like pebbles, peppering my windows pull me back to reality. " I grope and fret and holler in the dark..." something like that. Consciousness dictates that I should put more logs in the fire. I must relinquish the little warmth built under the four layers of covers, arrange few more logs of wood strategically in the fireplace, stuff crumpled pieces of paper and strike a long, blue tipped match with my icy fingers.

The papers rejoice at their contact with the match- my magic wand which will create a little warmth.

A quick, shivering return to my sofa-bed, my nocturnal shelter for the last seven nights... I pull the covers over my head to keep in the feeble warmth of my breath , but mine is a cold, cold breath.

"Some say the world will end in ice..." that was Robert Frost. Ice and Frost. "...and some say in fire." I cannot remember anymore. I cannot think. I say a little prayer for all living things, big and small and surrender my ears to the howling of the wind as it continues to play havoc with nature.

In spite of all our creations and inventions, in the face of the Power above, yes, indeed, how powerless we are.