Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago that seems especially wintry, if not a little depressing.

Salt Shaker

Palsy and ice met

on my grandfather’s steps

while Morton sat

on the counter

mocking the flavor

I saw in the frozen pool

of red and tasted

in the warmth

flowing down my cheeks

when the last rites

were said

and the steps

could have been solid

with the bitter salt

but the priest only shook

his head and said

when it rains

it pours

and Grandpa

flavored the earth.

Brian Potter