Ice Prism

This comes and goes: missing
mountains wrapped in nothing but fog.
 
You remember your very first winter:
icicles brittle in the trees, new friends warning—

Don't go out in this kind of cold
with your hair still wet from the shower.

It was oddly beautiful 
to picture. A glass piano. Your head, 

a forest unhusked, undenuded; 
not a twig broken, not even by butcher birds. 

Imagine 
wearing an ice helmet, 

a glistening. Avoiding the sun 
to keep from breaking the spell.