I found this poem that I wrote last winter. I'd forgotten about it.

[nirix5]

It's so cold that the ink won't run
and the words are frail shadows and grooves
of blue on the page.
We watch the snowflakes plummet to the ground
while the pipes burst in the back room,
an icy metaphorical knife
ripping a wound in frozen metal.
There's an inch of water on the floor now
and nothing to say.
Drinking coffee and eating sandwiches
won't make time go faster,
won't rip away the veil of winter to see
the glimmer of summer on a spring drenched horizon.
For now all we can do
is buy extra insulation and a new section of pipe,
take the laundry to the laundromat,
wait for the planet to fly to the other side
of the sun
and scatter the cold.
... This is going to wreck the boxes in the basement.