Salt on Ice

for some

the sheer horror is

the prospect of

the howling hours

the repetition of

fiercely falling snow

for whom will

the bell of winter toll

the weatherman says

on news channel 12

there aren't enough

agreed upon facts

for any of us to know

but for others

snow is pure hope

of something better

when it settles deep

and quiet beyond

the fires of

a well-built hearth

in bronze meadows

and thick forests

as it did in unclaimed

places long ago

the seasons of late

are devoid of rain

but soon there may be

two feet or more of fresh white

covering the thorny bushes and

the brown stubble of

the frozen fields of grasses

some of the wispy saplings

we planted earlier in the fall

will bend and snap

a few of the old limbs

of elder sycamores

will break and crack

but even after

that much precipitation

not much changes

the fields of white

eventually collapse

into an inch or maybe two

of water not nearly enough

to replenish what's

deep down that sustains us

the neighbor's burly

son who's too old

now to be living

in his parent's home

has just stopped by

offering to plow

the driveway

shovel off

the walks

the steps

for just

a hundred bucks

he says he plans

to make a business of it

i see no future

for him laboring over

something soon to melt

that happens less

and less as time passes

on into drought

but he's firm

in his conviction

says the cars

and trucks

must always

make it out

he's been

by my place

before to

tell me how

he doesn't

like the pride

emblem on

my door

baptized

as he was

by the water

salt and oils

of the church of

the risen christ

he warns that

i should bring

in my american flag

to keep it from being

torn by the fierce weather

settling in upon us

i thank him for the offer

of his labor but let him know

i'm warming up just now

inside for the fight

with these tiny flakes

of fallen light regardless

of their number

that the battle

will unfurl

in increments

of persistent effort

when the storm subsides

later in the night

the steps down

from my back deck

are treacherous

steep

difficult to navigate

especially in the dark

when clearing winter out

i head out at dusk

before the storm's

full force to lay

the best foundation

by spreading magic

crystals of blue heat

the kind of faith you buy

in recycled plastic bags

at the big box hardware stores

the cold is just the cruel

context for the task

and spreading salt

is all i know

to do to stop

ice from forming

where it doesn't belong

where it will cause  

great harm to me or

my frenzied hounds

where it lingers

with its black mask

like the sufficient

death of frost

where anyone

with any sense

knows ice can't

last for long