ICE STORM

The language of the heart would desecrate,
The chastity of this moon-blinded night,
these iridescent trees of ice, these great,
ascetic areas of silver light

that have been fields before the winter rain
froze on the snow to magnify the moon.
The trees and vines tinkle a thin refrain
like a glass windbell's tune.

Let those who go abroad be solitary,
stifle the heart and see how this unknown
and brittle world, unreal and legendary,
was filmed in crystal for the mind alone.

Jessica Powers