When ice outside makes daggers of the grass,
I come to where the tides of life still flow.
The water here still moves behind the glass.
 
In here, the seasons never seem to pass—
the sullen shark and rays still come and go.
Outside the ice makes daggers of the grass
 
and coats the roads. The meditative bass
won't puzzle how the blustery blizzards blow.
The water here still moves. Behind the glass,
 
rose-tinted corals house a teeming mass
of busy neon creatures who don't know
"outside." The ice makes daggers of the grass
 
and oily puddles into mirrors. Gas
freezes in its lines; my car won't go,
but water here still moves behind the glass.
 
No piles of valentines, no heart held fast—
just sea stars under lights kept soft and low.
Outside, the ice makes daggers of the grass;
in here, the water moves behind the glass.