Freezing of Time

Jeffrey L. Taylor

October 1, 2021

Branches sagged under their load of ice.
The willow bent low, disappeared
from the second-story window.  Snow
covered streets, trees, and the sound
of non-existent traffic.  Power lines broke,
taking heat, lights, clocks.  There is not
a wind-up clock in the house.  The sundial
on the patio is more decoration
than timepiece and not much use
under snow-colored skies.

Only Earth’s power lines remain.
Ley lines, Dragon lines, Spirit lines.
What they connect has been lost
to our sensibilities.  Too many generations
have passed without passing along their lore.

The camp stove, once recreational equipment,
is now survival equipment.  It was donated
to Parks & Rec. years ago.  Though out of practice,
I remember how to cook and wash dishes
with unsafe water.

The down sleeping bags are also gone.  We have blankets,
a heavy comforter, and warm clothes from the climate
that just visited us.  The shovel in storage
is miles away.

Driving?  No tire chains.  No snow tires.
No studded tires.  No one
with a snowplow hitch on their pickup.
The street will not be plowed.
The city has only a few sand spreaders.

All is frozen, including time.  For nine days,
our cars will not move.  Meals will grow
increasingly odd as supplies dwindle.
We keep the cell phones fully charged,
every available jug filled with water.

Reserve capacity—a new consideration.

Jeffrey L. Taylor retired in 2001 after 40 years as a Software Engineer. Around 1990, poems started holding his sleep hostage. Unexpected for someone who did poorly in English classes. He has been published in di-vêrsé-city, Texas Poetry Calendar, Tejascovido, and The Langdon Review.