Fern Frost

        With our little nephew, in December 
we cut out dozens of paper snowflakes 
               and taped them to the front windows. 
Where he lives, they get real snow 
        in winter— like, more than seven inches, 
whereas we on the coast are lucky to get 
               a dusting. I was today years old when I 
remembered, after rereading Dante, 
        that the lowest circle of hell is not 
actually a blazing inferno but a frozen  
               tundra where hundreds of sinners 
are buried up to their necks in ice.  
         And the coldest of them is Satan, of course— 
having fallen from such a great height, he caused 
               such rapid cooling in the atmosphere 
which followed him into the deepest circle of hell.
         There he is, the central cooling system where 
the sun never shines, beating gigantic bat-like wings.
               Hell must be anywhere or anytime you feel
stuck without sight of reprieve— Thinking about that
         makes my heart constrict. Water bubbles dropped
on ice, swirling with crystal dendrites and fern frost,
               are sharp with beauty at the edge of grief.