More permanent than the ice
the roads re-carved the Catskills.
They arched around the bases
tighter and tighter into strangles
and cut straight up the sides
gutting the land, splitting it
into new valleys.
My grandfather’s face whittled down with them
and he died, blue-white
behind his house
along the access road to the cell tower
that cast shadows among the basswood
and ticked away like a giant sundial.