by isaac black

Snow is a plaything for the kids who tightrope their way to the center of frozen ponds,
Bowing the ice with their slight weight,
Carving their names.

Grown ups skate in cars to ochre lighted pubs–
Glowing like collapsed pumpkins under snow
–and pickle themselves.

They have no doubt of reanimation.
The cold pierces my toes–
When the last spirit sinks below the ice,
Who will be left to wake us all up?