david lessard (september fourteenth, nineteen forty-one / gardner, massachusetts)

Icicles...four to five feet long,
like cyrstals of daggers,
they droop, like cold fingers,
with tears at their ends.
They are reminders of
winters, past and present,
frigid, rigid, ice swords.
I am dressed in several
layers of clothing...
this is to trap heat
(what heat! ?) .
I open the front door
and I am greeted with
a slap in the face!
A thirty-degree below zero
slap of air that instantly
freezes my face.
I can feel the tiny hairs
in my nostrils curl up.
I trudge to my automobile,
in the foot high snow,
special delivery from
last night.
I turn the key and
the engine emits
little growls of protest...
It finally starts after
a mountain of reluctance.
I drive on iron-like wheels
the steering mechanism
fights me and I feel as if
I've no power steering,
except for that of my
muscled arms.
My windshield wipers and heater
are working frantically to
clear my view and warm
the inside of my vehicle.
Ah, a winter's day in New Hampshire!
I don't know which, I like least;
the hot or the cold.

Today, it's the cold.