We had an ICE STORM.

 

 

 

 

Ice covered EVERYTHING—

 

 

 

every single blade of grass that poked its tip out of the crusted snow.

 

 

 

Boughs bent slowly down.

Icicles followed, curving toward the ground.

 

 

 

Iris felt the weight of ice that pained the plants.

Futilely, she tried to relieve them of their burden.

 

 

 

She was sad she could not help them.

I tried to distract her with beauty.

 

 

 

But all she could think about was pain.

 

 

 

When someone finally stops talking about something,

how do we know whether or not they are still thinking about it?

 

 

 

Umbels!

 

 

 

And grids.

 

 

 

This is our woods.

 

 

 

The most beautiful place.

 

 

 

These are my children.

I took them out into the ice storm as great branches cracked and tumbled to the ground.