Cold air slipped in the window
Left open overnight.
It’s 100 below zero
And all is either black or white.
Ice leans against our home
As if meaning to fight.
The wind chants a lifeless Om.
“This is our new Ice Age
Under a sun silver as chrome,”
Says the nodding sage.
There’s no bitterness or woe
I could scratch on this page —
The ink has ceased to flow.