A mountain jay shrieks,

cracking both morning’s quiet

and ice on the pond.

The power goes off,

and my electric blanket

quickly turns to ice.

in a tub of ice

three watermelons cooling—

Labor Day picnic

Some mornings are hard,

as hard as ice on a pond

at forty below.

Skin

Deepening autumn—

the water in the dog dish

wears a skin of ice.

Ice

December twilight—

my reflection in the pond

slowly turns to ice

first rain of April—

the road of separation

between ice and fire

after the ice storm

plum branches litter the yard

final performance

hard winter’s night—

ragged notes of wind chimes

breaking the ice