Or at least a rampage of sleet and slip.
When from my mouth humidity billowed,
and seventeen ice-picks strung across fascia.
A wish that mother had worked overtime
to add a second ply on Christmas quilt.
Procrastination wreaks revenge on kindling,
so mucked with damp, casualty of no canvas.
Gas stove sputters to heat the snow gathered,
a habit since fifth pipe split kidneys.
The stench of jams and butter biscuits
still haunt the pantry stocked with nostalgia.
Next to door-frame are the etched stencils
of all three children's advancement of height.
Three weeks until four week anniversary
of finding all three, in rigid silent slumbers.
A wasted fortune to invest in that catalogue,
promising Alaskan log pipe-dream heaven.
My father always said, "When hell freezes over."
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