The Ice Storm   The night of the ice storm he lay untouched by sleep, alone in the spare room. All night long the forest shattered, tree by tree, much as if exploding, limb by limb — fierce bright cracks, splintering cascades, shuddering thuds of massive things falling to 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 theirs, his too, 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