The Ice Storm

by Roger Biehn

Spring is slow to come; from the south bearing
More winter moves the Colorado low
Casting ice pellets, freezing rain below
On the dreading neighborhoods, not caring
What darkness comes.

And on the sign that reads

“For Sale”, next door we hear a different blow
Struck by the hand of a more ruthless foe
That snaps between his fingers like dead reeds
Our frail loves’ dear motives and intentions.
And what have we to do but pray and groan,
For young hearts to winnow the fragments through;
Meanings strewn and broken through dissension,
A storm front none can face in flesh and bone.
But groan for spring’s breath to revive love anew.

Roger Biehn is a corporate controller and part-time poet.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy