There is no terrible beauty like an ice storm
The world is covered in spun silver and glass
Humble weeds, long dead for the season
Become art nouveau sculptures of curve and shape
Trees becomes clouds of spun lace
And pines droop elegantly in their arboreous agony
Every thing exposed now sparkles and glints
In the sun that inevitably follows
And blinds us to the danger
Until the heart-wrenching crack of limbs
And necklaces of crystal break and
Shatter the power grid as they fall
And the stillness that follows the storm
Is breathtaking
Until the rip of the chainsaw
Grinds us back to reality
And the aftermath