Slate sky
murky cold haze
wind chill
ekes through fibers
coat to sweats to underwear
blasts aching bones
limping feet
hobbled knees
crippled hands
feel the gray
wall of pain
The ice storm began on Tuesday around 6 pm in Bedford. The plink of freezing rain on the pane. An extra shine on the pavement and the exagerated fervor of the weathermen, with maps in white and pinks, heightened the frenzy Ray and I call the Blast of White Death. Indeed, we awoke to a Wednesday world encased in a sheet of ice. No need to shovel. We don't own one.
Instead, Ray trudged out to make the long slow drive (1-1/2 hours) to work, and I limbered up my fingers for a day of writing and editing. Ray arrived at his job safe and sound, and I was comfortable knowing I need not drive anywhere. Donning a sweatshirt over my black long sleeved shirt, I wrapped the afghan around my feet, and typed away.
Now, everything has melted and we'll be up to 60s by the weekend. However, an ice day in Texas brings back the little kid in me who loved the freedom of a snow day.
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