Collecting the Cold
A frosted verse on secrets between dawn and forecast
The weatherman stole frost
from my garden this morning,
his silver thermos catching
crystals like butterfly nets
catch light.
I watched through curtains
as he filled vial after vial,
careful not to wake
the sleeping neighborhood,
his breath turning to smoke
signals in dawn air.
Each forecast, I search
his hands for evidence -
the way ice makes skin
shimmer, how crystal dust
clings to sleeve cuffs
like guilty consciences.
He never mentions this
on channel five, just points
to radar maps, predicts
temperatures like confessions.
But I've seen how he measures
winter in stolen moments,
how his pockets sparkle
with contraband beauty.
Some mornings I leave
coffee on the porch,
watch it turn to garnets
in the cold. By the time
he arrives, everything's
frozen into perfect circles,
like tiny glass lakes
waiting to be collected.
We never speak of this -
his dawn theft of winter,
my silent permission.
Just nod across empty streets
like co-conspirators
in winter's brief magic,
keeping secrets
that melt by noon.
About the Creator
Tiffany Harris
Award-winning short fiction author, songwriter, and poet published in McSweeney's who won't shut up about it. This is that. Also great at non-parallel parking.
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