A Poem by Jacqueline Markowski

Ice Storm

In the yard the ice was no longer

falling. Just plump, fruitful rain

drops. The freeze had made beautiful

sculptures, which hung

from any still place -

a flag pole,

a stair railing,

the leaves.

A thick glossy layer of icing, the

rolling drips imprisoned within them-

selves. I plucked a green

leaf from a red tip which

seemed willing to fight me

for it. I picked off the ice from

the shoot, gently, like a scab.

Its shape held magnificently.

It was cold, stinging my hand

with its startling clarity.

Giving birth to fat, wet drops,

poison began to fall, drip-drop,

down toward my feet. As

my fingers grew numb, I

squinted to see a grain

of nature, any semblance of

the slab where it cured,

the mantle where it shone,

the house onto which it was born—

all those places gone; almost all water,

a completely different thing. My grasp

numb, I didn't feel it slipping out of my

hand. As it fell to the ground, toward

the water that bled from it, I

felt the shatter. Four different pieces,

so small, singular. In seconds there was

nothing solid left.

*This poem first appeared in Permafrost Literary Journal - 2006

Jacqueline Markowski is a writer of poetry and short stories. She lives in Charlotte, NC where she divides her time between writing and being a homeschooling mother. Her poetry has appeared in Chronogram Magazine, Cochlea/The Neovictorian and Permafrost Literary Journal. She was awarded first place in poetry during the 2006 Sandhills Writers Conference. She is currently working on a compilation of short stories but who’s she kidding- she’ll never finish.