Ice came to places out my window
on winds that have been in western Missouri.
Winds that began, mysterious as all things divine,
high above the western troposphere.
But who cares for the origin of cold?
so again, ice comes to the edge of all.
First as rain, held to leafless branches,
then, transformed to itself, imprisoning each branch,
to sublime, glistening, weight-fulness.
What beauty the cold wind brings.