By Jason W. Johnson
Before the frost flowers, before the windshield cracks
Into a fragile web of fractured glass,
I’ll take my place among the walnut trees
And the dead dogwoods, whose bare branches break
Beneath the burden of a two days’ snow,
Leaving behind a white, disheveled canvas
Of frozen leaves and cold, denuded trunks.
The radio warns that another foot
Of what they call “a shovelable snow”
Will break the border of the national forest
I hear it in the breeze,
The quiet encroachment of another storm
That, like the windshield, we’re not ready for,
But nonetheless will flower in the trees.