I.

        The pond behind our house
        did not freeze like a whip crack,
        nor like lightning in front of the moon, nor
        despite the sound, did it freeze
        like the snapping of fingers or
        knuckles cracking.

        Rather, like all things in Vermont,
        our pond froze over the course of days,
        without anybody noticing.

II.

        We put pine needles on the front step,
        to keep the ice at bay,
        but salt would have worked better,
        and the wood stove, beautiful
        though it could have been,
        gave off more smoke than warmth,
        and nobody bothered to clean it.

        We city boys sure were rusticated,
        in our little woody cabin,
        though, once, an ice storm
        brought down the internet
        and we all went to bed early.

III.

        The farmers I met were not charming
        red-nosed scamps who tended their Brussles sprouts
        with the care of angels,
        but mysogynist bastards who sat
        all day at bars, complaining,
        while the Jamaicans they'd hardly pay
        filled plastic bags with kale and
        swiss chard.

        I'm told the fuzzy-eared
        growers of sprouts
        have migrated to England -
        Yorkshire, perhaps.

IV.

        Mostly I was too caught up
        in finding the next bottle
        to drink while discussing
        local autonomy or nature symbolism,
        to notice you, Vermont,
        so when you didn't make me whole,
        I took your tourist dollars
        and moved to New York
        to write about concrete.