That winter

there were those bent
on destroying 
              everything  
holding the world. Rows of potatoes 
softened to grey in the fields.
Globes of citrus darkened, 
moons 
       waning in orchards.
Hot wind stung our cheeks. Our
children learned to compose
elegies 
         for the bees. One of them
dreamed we were stuck in the caves
of our homes, and only one 
person at a time  
                  could leave 
to search in the town for salt
or sugar or oil. We tried 
to keep 
         our griefs small,
yet they bloomed like fractals 
inside a veil. The differences 
between us came
                down to this:
who let the cold turn to stone
in a vessel, who chafed the vessel
with burning hands.