It's become a game: waiting to see if
the Hudson is going to freeze. So far,
it has only flirted with ice. Its stillest places
harden at night, but with morning, let go their cold
indifference, the way I discarded my wedding dress.
How dangerous it seems now to say vows
beneath sheets of cool white satin. The promise
we made is a river, and we drowned.
Into the current, men paddle small boats,
lean over, sort through the old disputes-
chunks of ice, sharp and heavy as you'd guess-
grab what might be something and what
might be nothing, glad even for a single
red mitten, evidence a pair of hands
once tried to warm another.
Carolee lives in Upstate New York, where – after a local, annual poetry competition – she has fun saying she has been the “almost” poet laureate of Smitty’s Tavern. She manages the Twitter account for the Tupelo 30/30 writing project, writes reviews for The American Poetry Journal and blogs at Good Universe Next Door.