First it was five above, then two,

then one morning just plain zero.

There was a strange thrill in saying it.

It’s zero,

I said when you got up.

 

I was pouring your coffee

and suddenly the whole house made sense:

the roof, the walls, the little heat registers

rattling on the floor. Even the mortgage. Zero,

you said, still in your robe.

 

And you walked to the window and looked out

at the blanket of snow on the garden

where last summer you planted carrots

and radishes, sweet peas and onions,

and a tiny rainforest of tomatoes

in the hot delirium of June.

 

Yes, I said, with a certain grim finality,

staring at the white cap of snow on the barbecue grill

I’d neglected to put in the garage for winter.

And the radio says it could go lower.

 

I like that robe, it’s white and shimmery,

and has a habit of falling open

unless you tie it just right.

 

This wasn’t the barbarians at the gate.

It wasn’t Carthage in flames, or even

the Donner Party. But it was zero, by God,

and the robe fell open.