Ice coated branches crash against
the roof of a house where
a baby is sleeping.
a child is playing,
a man is resting, and
I am writing.

The crackle of fallen ice,
twigs and sticks fill
the gap between
crashes so loud I look
at the sleeping babe.

Every crash,
every boom,
every forceful noise
outside this house brings forth
the most terrifying scenes.

In my mind,
one of the timber giants
leans too close to
the roof and
loses its balance.

In my mind,
every ice shard is
large enough
to announce its
hostile entry.

In my mind,
the branches rage
from their ice prisons,
falling fast against
the fortress of home.

The intruder is wood and water
that steals warmth and comfort.

All this while
the candle burns,
the child plays,
and the baby sleeps.