It's steamy hot outside and every weed, flower, shrub, tree, and blade of grass is growing so fast that you can almost see it. So I enjoyed the fact that
Poetry Magazine posted Annie Boutell's poem about cold:
COLD
Rime rings the rock:
ink freezes; wine congeals
to splintered stars;
on passing boats, men,
tied to the bows, lean
and strike the ice, jockeys
whipping their horses,
whack-whacking what
was once a wave
but clings now, builds,
and hauls boats down.
We are bound by ice.
Father heats a coin
on the stove, holds
it in his leather glove,
presses it against
the darkened glass,
and watches as heat
chases ice. Through
a penny-sized hole,
we peer at a round
and polished world
of hardening water.
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