No wind yesterday to strip the snow from the puffy white pipe cleaner tree limbs, which bent gracefully earthward like overweight balletic arms. Sky pinked at dawn, fog rising from the snow in the bitter air, it was a tableau from a Frost poem, from a Kinkade painting, from a wistful Winston winter melody,
Today the same trees are encased in half an inch of ice. No grace. Aching arthritically, breaking, broken to the ground, the same limbs wet, blackened, and surrendered. This is the nightmare in a Poe poem, a Munch painting, a Mahler symphony.
Modern life slaps, flails, at the landscape and Nature laughs. The sane response is atavistic; curl up, stay warm, cower at the sight of the Ice Dream. Go back to sleep, sleep another dream, a dream of spring.