Ice

Ice


From the road, I can see
winter's first ice: a brook,
snaking its way across the floor,
leaves flecks of white
at the feet of oaks before
trickling off toward the lake.
In a few weeks, it will stop
its flow, and become
another thing to walk over,
to tap the surface of,
and forget.

Looking into the woods
from the road, I remember
walking on last winter's ice.
Beneath the surface, a small turtle
waved his sleepy claw,
blinked, then swam
out of sight, burrowing
back into the dark,
muddy pond bottom.


Later that day I tried to tell
a friend about it.  The words
hardened and froze before I spoke,
as if that secret belonged in the woods,
to be forgotten,
then recalled
with the coming of this year's ice.