Paul Martin

THE FREEZE

No one on the towpath

but me, pressing against an icy wind.

The blaze that swept through the trees

has died down to a flicker,

the only song the thin note

of a chickadee

flitting from one bare limb to another.

Overnight the muddy steps of yesterday’s hiker

froze into place.  The air tightens.

Everything that lives leaves

or deepens into its core.

The turtle buries itself,

slows its breathing

and begins its long dream of the sun.

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