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I woke to an ice storm this morning,
the world was navy blue in pale moonlight,
twilight swung on the horizon,
and the alarm had not yet rung.
Quietness spread like soft silk over my neighborhood,
while the unsuspecting slept
in scarlet warmth, in our Suburbia.
My little dog who hates the rain
confused by crystal pellets
darted in and out the back door,
going for her morning wee.
From my bedroom window....
I see the trees hemmed tightly,
in perfect ice sculptures.
This is the weather that conjured the words glisten and gleam,
in the days before artificial light usurped the landscape with it haze.
I want to take the bee bee gun,
long since discarded from my children's youth,
and pluck out the yellow light of the street lamps.
And bath only in that cool navy sea that visits this morning.
In the yard a twisted crunch sound,
like tiptoes on broken glass meets my ears.
And I in shoes not made for wading this mirage, step gingerly to my car.
The lady on the TV says,
don't go out if you don't have to.
She is at work,
but she is so important,
The eyes and ears of us all, the over seeing goddess of important detail.
But it is Thursday before Christmas,
and I am a mall worker.
So I laugh as I sleigh on wheels down the drive,
hoping to turn the wheel in time,
to not drive through my neighbors kitchen.
Stay off the roads chirps the TV nightingale.
Tell that to my boss,
who's yearly goal warbles on the last few days before Christmas.
And I drive off into the navy sea,
a distant shadow,
moving further away from my coffee sipping husband,
left standing on the glass grass of Suburbia.