The Ice Storm   The night of the ice storm he lay untouched by sleep, alone in the guest room. All night long the forest shattered, tree by tree, much as if exploding, tree by tree, fierce bright crack, splintering cascade, shuddering thud of massive things pounding the earth, and then silence, just the low thunder of the blood pulsing, eyes open to nothing at ten, midnight, two . . .                                 Upstairs, was she awake too, awake in the conquered bed, in the life that had been his, and theirs, till winter's blue fingers brandished the wind like a knife and pressed themselves in frigid prayer to bring the freezing rain that ruined everything?     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont May 2009