Cold Snap

Pulling heirloom carrots, bright oranges and reds brighter in the cold
radishes squishy and pale after the hard freeze, brushing aside dead
arugula, a mush of thawed chlorophyll and rotting leaves. The meteorologists
predicted the cold snap, an arctic blast or vortex, but who could believe it
would drop so quickly? When we took our dog out before bed, coaxing her
arthritic legs and back down the porch stairs, we didn’t bother with her coat.
It was already late, still fifty degrees outside, the last of the summer’s alyssum
blooming far past their season. That night the wind toppled trees, knocked out
power lines, rattled the neighbor’s shed so much I went out to check our yard
for damage. The temperature had dropped by then, freezing rain blocking the stars
my phone flashlight ineffective, wild birds hiding. By morning, it was in the single
digits, so cold we wrapped our Southern orchard in sheets, blankets circling
small tree trunks to protect the roots of figs and peaches. We won’t know if they
survived until spring. We left taps dripping, trying to avoid frozen pipes, flooding.
Ella tried to be a lap dog, Great Dane legs spilling off the sofa. She refused to go out.
The cold stayed, settled into the bones of houses, froze everything, even the pond
solid, kept neighbors huddled indoors for days, fireplaces vital during rolling black
outs, the street a sheet of glistening ice and rows of chimney smoke.

KERI WITHINGTON

Keri Withington (she/her) is an Appalachia-based poet, educator, and aspiring homesteader. Her work is rooted in ecofeminism and daily life with her family. Her poems have appeared widely, including in Constellations of Freckles (Dancing Girl Press) and Beckoning from the Waves (Plan B Press). Find her on FB @KeriWithingtonWriter.