Three days of freezing rain and the trees are glass in the street lamps and the roof tops are sheets of slick dry ice. I wanted to wake to snow, as promised, the one to three inches that would pad the lake of ice between the back door and the car which we crossed at least twice arm in arm with trepidation. Now it is almost an impossible crossing. And so cold even the snow is fearful.
***
I am looking again at her: I think it is a her hanging from a noose. I think she is pregnant, her legs curled beneath her. A Madonna with Child. A nursing mother. A blood splattered birthing. She may not be there at all, suspended from her rope in the frame as I saw her. I happened on the scene. But having seen it, I can't now unsee it, a bit of wire dangling from a chain, its twists and turns incidental, no. The form has purpose, is suggestive, is meant to bring the eye to see a head, a neck, a body in the length of line--I am convinced. This too is how line works.
***
&.
***
