The Little Ice Age

I have one good memory—a total

Eclipse of the sun—when out of brilliance

Dusk came swiftly and on the whole

At seven years it felt good on a summer afternoon

To be outrun by a horse from another century—

The next morning I washed up

On land like a pod of seals

Struck with a longing for dark at noon—

If the cessation of feeling is temporary

It resembles sleep—if permanent, it resembles

A little ice age—and the end of some

Crewelwork by a mother who put honey

Into my hands so the bees would love me.