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poem from New England Primer
by Bruce Guernsey


 

ICE STORM

To go to bed one April night,
a halo around the moon,
to sleep for hours it seems,
so soundly
you never heard the sleet—

to waken so suddenly old,
all that green gone white,
the orchard creaking,
its branches brittle as ribs—

to squint at the light with milky eyes,

the great-grandchildren gathered near,  
all staring, all frightened—

to point towards the window,
someone wetting your lips—

to try to tell them
 


images by Victoria Woollen-Danner


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