By Dianne Elizabeth Casey
Air hits like a freezer door opened,
that sudden solid cold.
Light catches the valleys :
pearls dropped from the timber.
Branches scattered
like a child let loose with glitter :
too much, everywhere,
gloriously wrong.
A stillness that travels back,
shadow and frost
older than the street.
The breath held.
Overnight, frost reads the world back to us :
the structures always there,
invisible until now.
Small kingdoms.
Secret people.
The Snow Queen’s map
not drawn
but revealed.
