Winter street scene, St. Paul, circa 1955. (Photo: Minnesota Historical Society)

My feet are cold—the car
is cold—the car sounds
like a bucket of bolts
Rolling down a hill—
it’s so cold that my breath
falls like ice from the roof
And the dog tip-toes
on the sidewalk—and the lake
seems to breathe deeply
Just as it freezes solid—
and the crisp snow under the tires
sounds like brown paper bags
Crumpled in a garbage can—
everything is cold—even the stars—
they crack—in the dark blue—


Tim Nolan is a lawyer and poet in Minneapolis, where he lives with his wife and three kids. His poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, The Nation, Ploughshares, and on The Writer’s Almanac. Tim’s first book, The Sound of It (New Rivers Press, 2008), was a finalist for a Minnesota Book Award.

Posted in: Poetry
Tagged: 2011, winter