Warnings sound
to stay at home as
a ten-hour ice storm
approaches.

The first pellets
hit the ground,
camouflaging
their entrance in the veil
of night and freezing rain.
Dark clouds conceal the 
sunrise, but not
the shiny layer forming
on snow, walks, driveway.

Birds and squirrels disappear.

As the long hours pass,
the icy sheen thickens,
fills with artistic designs,
and locks me in,
an elderly prisoner
in my own home.

Icicles form and hang.
A transparent layer coats
limbs of trees and bushes.

By the tenth hour,
the road is crusted 
in ice and snow.
A red truck pulls up 
in front of my house.
My snow crew descends,
but not with shovels, 
with salt.

Within an hour,
ice holding me captive
starts to bubble
and release me

as if telling me,
Covid is enough.
                        

The one before me
was an ectopic pregnancy
surgically removed,
as they told Mama
she’d probably never
conceive again,
and Papa cried. 

Eleven years later,  
in a winter blizzard,    
I came into the world
in a difficult birth
after they told Papa
neither Mama nor I
would survive.

Two years later,
Mama miscarried
a male infant
at five months,
her final attempt.
Whatever I did in life,
I always did for three.