Sometimes, in the silent white-cold light that
Falls from skies grown grey with cloud here, the ice
Does not sparkle. It lays like lead. A flat
Dull sheet that slowly suffocates what lies
Beneath. Creating an empty world so
Clear and cold that there is no sound left here:
No tree limbs creaking with frost, no echo
Of bird call, no small scurryings. Austere
And stark. A brittle husk of time and place,
As frozen as the world it’s frozen by.
There is no hint of brightness then, no trace
Or glance of glint to quell. The cloud filled sky
Brings only dawns that do not break, but lay
Heavy and fixed like ice itself all day.

Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s writing has appeared in many places, including The Lyric, Mezzo Cammin, Verse Wisconsin, and The Raintown Review. She has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her fourth and most recent book is Remind Me (Ancient Cypress Press).