Challenge
A poem about earth, air, water, and/or fire in winter.
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
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