Frozen Hands

A silver coin hangs frozen in the sky
among the copper clouds that slowly fade
to daytime grey. A deadly dry-ice blade
inflames my lungs. The old year wouldn’t die
it’s holding on, like geese that will not fly
to summer breeding grounds. Events replayed
like someone’s ghastly pantomime charade
to fill this gap in time. But by and by—
elastic only stretches to a point
and cold makes rubber brittle. Snapping bands
will rebound, putting time back into joint
and moon and sun will spin like tumbling dice
across the sky. We’ll watch for moving hands
around the clock now still and cold as ice.