Carrie Tangenberg

After the Ice Storm

The ornamental grass sheds ice like beads
that fall on Ethan’s head in glassy speckles.
He’s walking me, so who knows where it leads.

His nose sure knows: It’s fronting at great speeds,
sidewalk glaze now cleared, with frozen freckles,
those ornaments of grass in tube-like beads.

He rubs against the ornamental reeds,
a ritual the ice storm seems to heckle.
His sugared fur is where the side-swipe leads.

He’s trotting on obtusely as I plead
to photograph his crown of gelid sprinkles
that shrubs of grass bestow like crystal beads.

Ignoring melting grains like dormant seeds,
his singular fixation makes me chuckle.
He circle-walks. We all know where that leads.

Soon he’s finished business, met his needs.
Beneath his paws, the lawn grass crunches, buckles.
More yellowed straws shed ice like glassy beads
while I walk him back home, where all things lead.

Carrie Tangenberg’s poetry has appeared in Merion West, The Wayward Sword, and her blog
Philosofishal, and is forthcoming in Neologism Poetry Journal. In her former lives, Carrie
worked in publishing, higher education, teaching, tutoring, and freelance writing. Based in
Akron, Ohio, she enjoys reading the classics, birding, dogs, and photography.