I hear the ice storm from the open window in my bedroom. The pellets sting the roof and assault the already frozen ground. In the light of the street lamp I can see the trees turn to crystal. A perverse beauty. Then the boughs cry and crack as they peel and fall shedding droplets of ice like glass shards shimmying to the ground and spraying as the branches crash. All night long.

In the morning, it’s still raining ice. The twenty-foot evergreens that line the side of our property are broken and bent in mercy of the storm. My birch is arched. The trees are covered in ice, articulating their branches and forming little ice buds that would have been spring. The sky is white. The fallen warriors of the night are strewn over my driveway and yard. It’s a massacre of trees. The maples that stand stoically close to the house are precariously bowed over the roof and suspended in frozen time.

Our house resembles a set from a Tim Burton film. It’s the house that people slow down to look at as they drive by or walk their dogs. I am grateful for my neighbours who came to the rescue, dragged the branches from the drive, chipped the shell off my car, and then carefully removed the branches that were hanging from the hydro wire, strung above my car. Because of them I have power and mobility, food and wine.

Last night the half moon lay horizontally in the sky, as if a table of ice was weighing it down as well. In my garden, the black iron lawn chairs lay still under the glass branches. The white chair with the curvy legs has become a still life against the landscape. The lanterns wait for a candle to be lit. It is hard to imagine blooms will come again.

And now, another day has passed. The third morning is breaking after the storm to frigid cold and a dusting of snow. The street lamp is still on.

(Toronto Ice Storm – December 22, 2013)