Kinds Of Ice

What kind of ice was on your car this morning?
Was it tender white fur,
a fractal forest of tiny pines?
Was it solid opaque glaze, like a bathroom window
so your scraper skidded and left ugly gouges?
Was it glassy, smooth and slick
or stippled with frozen drops
or was it scattered specks
or a fine crystalline crust?

What kind of ice was in your heart this morning?
Was it fear for a loved one in a distant land,
or nearby in critical care?
Was it the rodent gnawing of anxiety,
attacking any stick it can find?
Was it about your job, your life, your kids, your parents?
Was it paralyzing grief
numbing depression
loss or the anticipation of loss—
icy wind rattling the mailbox
phone ringing with bad news
siren howling on a nearby street?

Who is with me need neither fear nor grieve—
the sun comes out
and melts the frost.