A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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ICE STORM
No one heard it falling when it came,
A gentle mist that never turned to rain.
It coated all the branches of the trees,
And then began to freeze.
People looked around and thought it nice
To see the branches glistening with ice.
There was no wind; the air was almost warm.
No one thought it was a storm.
But it would not go away.
The ice grew thicker day by day.
The trees could not support the weight;
Some would bend and some would break.
People were afraid.
It sounded like a bombing raid.
All night long they heard the sound
Of trees and branches crashing to the ground.
At daybreak few would dare
To see how little had been spared.
The tallest trees were down
Or had hanging, broken crowns.
The younger trees could bend,
But they may never straighten up again,
And most of what survives
Is small in size.
The undergrowth, in time, will be as tall
As any of the trees that had to fall.
Till then the many trees that are deformed
Will remind us of the storm.
No one heard it falling when it came,
A gentle mist that never turned to rain.
It coated all the branches of the trees,
And then began to freeze.
Winthrop, New York, 1998
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