Refrigerator

Our ice came from a flour mill,
stacked in a bin on the front porch. We could
feel a cool aura in those sticky summers
if we stood close, a blessed chill.
The ice man came weekly,
delivered a chunk to our icebox
on the back porch.
We chipped away bits of block
for sucking on steamy summer days.

Later, the blessed Kelvinator—
electricity that chilled, froze water!—
sat squat. A special compartment
held tiny metal trays. We pulled
the lever, and little ice cubes
popped up for Sunday tea.
What luxury after the spring my mother
had used, climbing down the bank,
back up with water and cream. 

Our new refrigerator is equipped
with dual ice makers. It came with codes,
filters, settings, a clutter of devices,
directions, drawers and doors.
Now, they say, some sleep in ice hotels,
for fun, drink cocktails from ice-formed cups,
seek shelter like Superman in his own ice cave
in these days of  drought
and flood and fire.
New bugs move north,
critters die out.
Our blue earth
swelters in its crust.