Waiting for a Killing Frost
Deep in October
waiting for a killing frost
crossing back and forth
mowing the lawn
and crushing leaves;
this one last time,
hoping for that
set of mists
and cold that
will end it again.
Where is that
trigger of wind,
of light, of sound,
of time, of temperature
which will bring
every leaf
from Cicada height
to jumping boy
grasp; down
on the ground
to thrash and
run scraping, skittering
across asphalt as
if all the summer’s
startled squirrels
fell to the grass;
now running back
to safety;
to high winter nests?
Where is the
morning frost
on car windows
liked dried glue
to be etched,
again and again,
morning after morning?
Where is the
winter drifting winds,
the weatherman’s
Alberta clipper,
that forces coats
to bending backs,
thick gloves on hands,
to clear again,
the sidewalks
of the night’s snow?
Where is that
solstice of half
day; half night
where evening light
starts and long
shadows begin
midday; racing
into night before
the day’s work
is done?
Where are the
drifts of snow
filling the hard ground,
covering gravestones
again above
the frozen creek?
Where are the
crystalline runs
covering the
river’s ice--
enveloping tangled
banks through
broken weeds,
brush and tag alder,
invading silent stands
of cedar traveling
over invisible pastures
out into fields
of stubble wheat
of corn, of beans?
I am anxious
for the crack of ice;
that one minute
more of light;
the second that
one more crystal
of snow & ice
is melted than
created; that
point when deep
drifts begin their
escape to run
wild into the earth
over the ground
and into the stream;
cold and bright
covering sand
and shinning stones.
Nokomis
October 28, 2004
East Lansing Series
©2004 Waiting for a Killing Frost — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
waiting for a killing frost
crossing back and forth
mowing the lawn
and crushing leaves;
this one last time,
hoping for that
set of mists
and cold that
will end it again.
Where is that
trigger of wind,
of light, of sound,
of time, of temperature
which will bring
every leaf
from Cicada height
to jumping boy
grasp; down
on the ground
to thrash and
run scraping, skittering
across asphalt as
if all the summer’s
startled squirrels
fell to the grass;
now running back
to safety;
to high winter nests?
Where is the
morning frost
on car windows
liked dried glue
to be etched,
again and again,
morning after morning?
Where is the
winter drifting winds,
the weatherman’s
Alberta clipper,
that forces coats
to bending backs,
thick gloves on hands,
to clear again,
the sidewalks
of the night’s snow?
Where is that
solstice of half
day; half night
where evening light
starts and long
shadows begin
midday; racing
into night before
the day’s work
is done?
Where are the
drifts of snow
filling the hard ground,
covering gravestones
again above
the frozen creek?
Where are the
crystalline runs
covering the
river’s ice--
enveloping tangled
banks through
broken weeds,
brush and tag alder,
invading silent stands
of cedar traveling
over invisible pastures
out into fields
of stubble wheat
of corn, of beans?
I am anxious
for the crack of ice;
that one minute
more of light;
the second that
one more crystal
of snow & ice
is melted than
created; that
point when deep
drifts begin their
escape to run
wild into the earth
over the ground
and into the stream;
cold and bright
covering sand
and shinning stones.
Nokomis
October 28, 2004
East Lansing Series
©2004 Waiting for a Killing Frost — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.