The trees are made of glass. What am I made of. The trees are made of glass. It is painfully beautiful to look. The trees are made of glass. What am I made of. Can’t be shaken by the wind without breaking. The trees are made of glass.

Winter has been going on for years. Sends me staggering through snow banks, searching for traction on streets of glass. A state of emergency has been declared in Maine. But to me it’s just a maze of snow banks, just appreciation to be found in quiet so great I’d like to be all alone in the world. My face gone, scratched away by the cold. My face grown hair that hangs with ice.

Something inside me remembers, “there was a time when you were thrilled by life, and keen of mind,” now all I know is that winter has lasted too long, and I am snow blind. Poetry hides in moldy bottles underneath the sink. You have to break a lot of glass to get to it. If you put the rims to you ear it sounds faintly like the ocean, but stinks of the dead. People greet me with surprise, “I saw you half froze back there.” I smile and say, “I was trying so hard not to lie down in the snow.”