Cryology

I'm really sad, she said.
I'm going to go play in the snow.
She stopped to
fix a glove
and left,
slamming the door behind her.
From the kitchen window
I saw her jump
from the low deck
into the pillow of crystals
that had flattened my camelia bushes.
Recovering,
she rubbed her knees
and wiped her nose.

I washed our dishes,
scrubbing away a day's worth of small talk.
Eggs for breakfast
grilled cheese for lunch
sitcoms and sex for dinner.
I scraped off the weather--
temperature dropping,
eighty-percent chance of sleet--
with my thumbnail,
flicked it down the drain,
and turned on the disposal,
trying to grind today into
particles small enough to
blend over the frozen camelias,
part of our whitewashed
masterpiece.