by Megan Nichols
I hear the sleet before I feel it
sharp and deliberate on the metal
roof above my quilt covered bed.
We prepared for the storm experts
predicted. Today could be miserable.
I could slip on ice. My pipes could
freeze. I could remain haunted
by all my winter ghosts, angry
with me for how little I pray.
But water rushes from the spout
and the tea kettle sings its morning
song. I don’t break my neck
on my way to the mailbox. I wave
at my neighbor dancing through
her chill. We laugh and the dead
escape our throats for now.
My son wakes hungry for snow
but is offered only potholes
of icy-rain. He hollers for me
to pull on my boots.
