For a double dare by Beverly Crawford, and with sympathy for Jane Dougherty, following my poem The Next Dance.

“There is a grandeur in winter, stern and wild it may be, but a grandeur which speaks to the soul.” CJ Peterson.
No Surrender The sly cocktail dress sits sublime in ice upon the line all formal and smooth, while my dungarees have actually taken shape as if possessed by a ghost, all stiff and starched, no wrinkles or sag like the sack of potatoes they normally pose draped upon me, the ice has claimed the denim and holds it in its steely grip as if fit for Ned Kelly's last stand where there will be no surrender until the sun breaks free. ©Paul Vincent Cannon