Jack Frost

A clear cold moon
And my breath throws out
Plumes of white moisture
Into desiccated air.

The river gargles desperately,
Half-choked with ice.  Somewhere
Beyond the rigid twigs and
High branches of our brittle Alders

Behind the snow lading every
Object into formlessness, lives
A silent, powerful presence that
Freezes this place to its will.

The cold bites deep into my 
Top layer of skin - the epidermis
Trembling as tiny hair follicles
Become icicles and burn.  Out here

Even the night stiffens, and all
Living things have gone to ground.
Mad Jack lives with us, creates this 
Navy place of stars and glitterings,

Of dangerousness. To die, 
To hibernate, to freeze - these are 
The choices.  The air I breathe
Refuses to carry anything in its

Arms except windchill and stars.  
Small farms huddle into the
Hills around, lights twinkling.  This is
Hoarfrost and life, this is

Stasis and silence in wastes of black.
Jack listens to me breathe and
Casts another net of frost across
Our drive.  I submit and go inside

To fire and wine and company.

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