The earth has water older than
the sun, scientists say. I’ll never
see rain the same way again,
or hear it tap on the roof
at 4:00 a.m. and not wonder
what other skies it has fallen from,
what other oceans it once also
returned to as if going home.
Scientists say they’re more certain
than ever that planets
throughout the cosmos harbor this
resident alien. And remembering
how many times the eye
has evolved on Earth alone,
I listen to the drumming
on the roof and imagine
Harried by crows,
the pale red-tailed hawk
glides along the ridge
and lands in a stand
of black locusts broken
by last December’s ice,
one more pale wound
among the ragged spears
of raw wood.
On a warm day,
a patch of ice dulls over
like a dead eye,
except that something moves
under and through it,
like the soul—
that bubble of breath—
surrounded by meltwater
and the bluebird’s song.
A few degrees above freezing,
and already the first gnats
have come back to life.
Insects have mastered
the most immaculate lifelessness,
deader than any corpse:
even ice
with its many knives
never gets a chance to grow.
Opossum out at mid-day
on the glare ice
wipes its snout with its paws.
It’s digging through the crust
to reach food we’ve pitched—
old barbecue sauce, rotten cabbage—
inserting its head
as if through the shell
of a great white egg…
Fresh holes gape in a maple trunk,
as if from some Roman
soldier’s lance.
The new, smooth ground of ice and sleet
hasn’t quite set;
I keep breaking through.
Cardinals peck at the plowed road,
gathering faux teeth
for their reliquaries.
Asphalt
fades to white
from weeks of salt.
Ice stitches
jack-knifed feathers
in the ditch
beside
the gray ridge
the snowplow made.
Phragmites rocks
in the wake
of passing trucks.
Love after 50 doesn’t make the pop charts.
It’s too absurd.
Absurd as ice cubes settling in a glass
when one pours hot coffee over them,
shedding their sharp edges.
Absurd as the day-time ghost
of one’s breath on a cold morning.
Absurd as the smell of soil after a rain—
why should mere dirt outdo all other odors?
Absurd as grinding steel on
a wobbly bench grinder with a corroding belt,
that hair of sparks,
the pleasant way they prickle against the skin.
Ice is a house I could
not stay in, the answer to
a tune I never hear.
Tell me how I promise forever
in the present, with fiddles and songs
and an old horse at grass.
Which trouble
is the truth, coming into the streets
to stand?
Your were like ice in the summer;
Your body was warm,
Hot even,
Burning, tingling at touch.
Keeping me warm too.
Your heart was cold,
Alone in the dark,
Frozen still.
Cracking like ice.
You were like fresh waves crashing on hot sand,
Refreshing but not new.
You weren't ice cream melting in the sun,
Not annoying.
You were ice in the summer,
Common, regular, but different.
Needed and wanted.
Complements,
Praise,
Rare to attain.
Achievements,
Rewards,
Hard to sustain.
Doubt,
Dispair,
Not too uncommon.
Delight,
Happiness,
Long forgotten.
Ice,
Freezing,
Yet comforting.
Fire,
The water rippled,
Yet didn't break,
I stepped lightly.
The flowers died,
The petals crushed,
I walked slowly.
The ice dented,
Cracks formed,
I ran quickly.
Leaves flew,
Blown away,
I stumbled slightly.
The ground opened,
Beneath me,
I slipped,
Into the abyss.