Pastel pink and lime green houses
are big as a story
with their wrap-around porches.
Outside I watch my white breath
rise on the blue air
while inside children with sockless feet
descend cool stairs.
Even poverty is a frozen noun
with no teeth, like a dog scratching
at the stiff lawn, whimpering.
Nothing is a menace here. Cars
are useless at the icy curb,
not a single bird in the black trees.
Everything is sorbet, sherbet, and cream.
Honey-colored skies embrace us.
Water freezes in our pipes.