Summer Houses in Winter The Society October 3, 2012 Poetry By Michael T. Young Ice is the past tense of water, is verb condensed to noun, pure speed contracted to a stasis of glitter, a brief foam frozen in marble beads, the memories that can’t recede. It is the practice of winter habits, of hibernating inhabitants hoarding the landscape, seeds and nuts, while the wind scratches, huffs and pants, and all the leaves are a frosty mint. The maples creak, seeming to say, Be hard, be cold in what you know. The dark pines darken and agree; clutching their needles, they won’t bow. The gables on all the houses glow; icicles stretch like falling figures, sleek, seasonal bodies of Icarus, translucence where the sunlight staggers, and sand, though it slides and slides, can’t pass from the top half of the hourglass. From Transcriptions of Daylight, Rattapallax Press, © 2000; originally printed in Pivot. Reprinted by permission of the author. Click here for other poems by Michael T. Young www.michaeltyoung.com Related Post ‘Where is Alice’ by Paris Michael Where was it that Alice went, One bright and shining day, A rabbit's lair, beneath the blare, A restless child at play, And where was it that Al... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.