Poems of the Week

Cold Blood

by Julia Griffin

“Creepy ice formations appear after winter storm”
Fox News

Close your eyes quickly. Speak it not aloud:
The iceman cometh, in his hood, or shroud,
Paler than leprosy, his head held low,
Praying, perhaps (ah, better not to know!).
Whom has he come for? Clasp your children hard;
His long, thin hand is reaching—but regard:
Who are these little figures, lithely leaping,
With tiny, shiny scythes, too cute for reaping?
I know not, but they seem less grim than glad.
“We’ve made a snowman! And it’s just like Dad!”