Diodes of Light

From this porch

atop the steam vent clouds

from a cup of whiskey tea;

everywhere, wintergray is made white

by this glorious sum of snow.

And later down hockey rink streets,

among plantation cotton-ball blossoms of ice

hammock-hung in the cradles of woodbrush,

we moon hop slowly to the store -

vested in heavy wool,

pinched by cold clear air,

and sung to by slipping bus tires

to get a cookie cutter 

and wax paper.

On the way home

the sun is a blinding yellow ice-cube

low in the south sound sky.

It looks like a pupil 

contracted between lid-fronts

of blue black arctic air.

Even at night 

the darkness pales 

in blankets of claustrophobic coldquiet.

My hands feel dry and old

under the floor lamp's heat

down here 

along the mopbucket sponge floorboards.

When December comes I stay inside,

with the heater constantly on,

clearing away the dust, 

and staring out the window

at frost never thawing 

bathed in Christmas colored 

diodes of light.