Poem: Ice Play

 

Ice Play

 

tadpoles of fiesty sun, 

they scamper off, boisterous in a bevy,

renegades amok on naked oaks, 

their mischief as ardent as 

gales swaying frozen among stilts of 

goldenrod and primrose,

such an illimitable landscape 

of glassy whips 

until

 

dawn comes seraphic and gossamer, 

then noon's mortalized bliss just before

a finale of red horizon 

succumbs to purple nightshade.

onyx in the end,

a haunting of crystalline branches,

fashionable as the hairdos of hydras,

lolling, lazy creatures which only half remember

the drama of sauvignon tears,

and yet moonless now 

so moonless …  

 

no, a pomegranate moon,

goddess of brittle tongues above this 

basin of wind. can they taste, i wonder, 

even a scintilla of the castaway glimmer from the ice?

maybe then ... 

yes, stars!

so brief, wish seeds ridden with mist, 

frosty far above the glistened ground.

what oasis that darkling dome?

what desert?

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5/26 ... vast eds