Degrees of Winter

At a certain point there is no temperature.
It is simply cold,
a place safe only for stones and ice,
certainly not

for hearts,
and you wonder how it is
that fire so quickly can turn to hate,
not in degrees,

but in a flash of ice
that never melts
except in memory.

About this poem

I still do not understand how love can so quickly turn to hate. I know it happens, but I do not understand it. Perhaps I never will.

The picture was taken yesterday from my front porch, of the abandoned slate quarry that rises across the street.

Tom