Collecting the Cold

The weatherman stole frost

from my garden this morning,

his silver thermos catching

crystals like butterfly nets

catch light.

I watched through curtains

as he filled vial after vial,

careful not to wake

the sleeping neighborhood,

his breath turning to smoke

signals in dawn air.

Each forecast, I search

his hands for evidence -

the way ice makes skin

shimmer, how crystal dust

clings to sleeve cuffs

like guilty consciences.

He never mentions this

on channel five, just points

to radar maps, predicts

temperatures like confessions.

But I've seen how he measures

winter in stolen moments,

how his pockets sparkle

with contraband beauty.

Some mornings I leave

coffee on the porch,

watch it turn to garnets

in the cold. By the time

he arrives, everything's

frozen into perfect circles,

like tiny glass lakes

waiting to be collected.

We never speak of this -

his dawn theft of winter,

my silent permission.

Just nod across empty streets

like co-conspirators

in winter's brief magic,

keeping secrets

that melt by noon.