When the plank is up,
Icicles form like the sword of Damocles
Above my door.
Breath is whisked away by prisms
Hanging between limbs, flailing.
My parka rests in the closet;
The shovel looks incongruous
Leaning against the shed.
High, I giggle in the peopled park,
Waiting for descent.

There is talk of another Arctic Vortex,
Combined with the Texas jet stream,
A canopy of cold is raised,
Crueler in the bright sunshine of March.
But we see shadows, elongating and shrinking,
And my toes reach tentatively
For the softening ground.
But soon,
I'm high again,
Heading towards the bright, yellow sun.