The world is a frigid waiting room of pebbled glass.
We make the chipping chopping sounds of an ice-storm morn.
Quick-frozen cars and trucks leave a tinkling trail from their frost-fringed fender skirts.
Plumes of warming cars blow black holes in the frigid air.
Brittle branches clad in crystal hide their humbled heads in snow.
Crybaby willows shed chandelier tears.
Bearded STOP signs scare me for I can’t.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem