Confession of a New Englander Before the Storm
by MFrostDelaney

The sky is clouded, sheathed in calm disguise.
Some leaves in trees clutch stubbornly against
a flutter of a breeze, then freeze to still—
all seen from windows shutting out the cold.
There's quiet in the cold, the still, the wait.
And in this deafness fear begins to build.
When living on a hill, it seems so far
from where the street gets plowed by someone else,
from where the town spreads salted sand that melts
the ice. But I've prepared: garaged the car,
laid in supplies. And yet my bones are chilled,
as is my mind with what-ifs of my fate.
The coming snow and ice and sleet all hold
me in their threats—not even here—until …
it starts to snow. As if my mind has sensed
a message from beyond, I mobilize,
with words I hear, You've done this all before.
So bring it on. And—Bam!— I'm out the door.



 

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