Artifact
Renee Carter Hall

At the height of the storm he goes out
to watch, and upon returning hands me
a hailstone the size of a quarter,

a piece of cold sky, layered
like a cell, like an egg from tumbling
through the lightning-cracked clouds.

Fascinated, I cup it in my palm, forget my worries
about the car and the windows, ignore the storm warning
still scrolling on TV.  I watch it melt, then

press my lips to it, tasting glacial winds and
permafrost, polar nights and silver snow--

and as the rain falls more softly,
the thunder more distant,

the storm dissolves on my tongue.

© 2001 Renee Carter Hall