The Ice Storm

In books, I have been taught to read weather
as an outward depiction of what’s in
the soul of whomever its about. Then,
I try this for life, not knowing better.
What I find I do not like: I should be
as things are outside—all falling apart.
But this is not how it is in my heart;
Ice does not weight me, break me like a tree.

The weather outside keeps us both in here
all cozy and warm, and safe at this time.
Nature performs a function unneeded—
just an excuse to be with he held dear.
We might venture into the cold, though I’m
quite happy to leave that call unheeded.