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To W. B. Keckler's previous piece

Icy

We leaves on the sill
so red.  You'd think
they might grow nerves.
A spider (dead) in this glass
box.  How'd that happen?
Cat and telephone asleep.
Chip of coal you sent me
lies on top of my bookshelf,
crushed time, a poem.
Once a prehistoric living day.
Now fuel for us.
Once I thought I could warm
myself but now I realize
I'm just like all of you.
Temperature of the world,
of the word too.

Freezing tonight.