Glass

Something about the raw

physicality of ice enchants me.

Its milky opacity seems pliable

and soft as pillow down, yet is

compacted, its billions of atoms

fuzed together like burnt metal.

Midwinter ice is laid upon

gelid ground, blue-lipped and

trembling. Does it protect the

lifeless earth beneath or suffocate

it, like unyeilding plastic?

On arctic nights like this one,

I clawed the ice with blood-flecked

nails and cursed its nature.

- EJH