Take a broom and sweep out the corners of your life,
the canned anger and tabled debates,
strangled tears, old jealousy and resentment.

A new kind of cold has settled over us all,
but under its power there is no "us" to speak of,
not to mention none to form a skaters' chain.

Are these flakes of snow, or are they ashes?
that settle in the yards of our fixed positions,
and bury our lines of communication under bias.

In this cold there is no warmth, only heat;
the heat of anger that melts sand to colored glass,
through which we see, tinted, but hear no others' voice?

Sweep out the corners of your life and clear the ice,
cut your nails, too short to break another's skin,
for when they have fallen through, only our hands can save them.

Are these flakes of snow, or are they ashes?
that chill our bones and set fire to our words,
and make the only beauty here the product of destruction.