I kneel on the waxed white oak boards
and lean, elbows rest on the narrow sill,
cheek against the frigid glass
breath expands crystals of rime in circles.
I stare at the moon, bright enough
to blot all but the highest stars,
when full, it stabs my pale irises
with silver shafts, and draws in shades of grey;
fractals from trees, tessellations where houses stand
in rows along unseen streets frozen under snow –
fallen and melted and refrozen –
this diurnal pattern repeats through winter.
I feel a creeping cooling from extremities inward,
a shivering procedure unable to break the shackles
I ride a roan Arabian mare
over the mid-night silver sands
we race the flat desert into dawn
as hot as the other was cold but still enflames the same
Joann Grisetti has been writing for 45 years. She is a retired teacher from Florida. She receives encouragement from her daughter and has recently enrolled in a creative writing workshop. She is a member of Poetry Soup. You can read more of her poetry there.