Reflections On Deep Ice

Black-ice sheers, it cuts deep into paved-ways and lots. Night snorts a frigid fog, the caked and idling cars only sludge a gripping freeze. This glacial dark fangs wrists and hearts. Grit nips at tender cheeks and tongues. The lights of bistros cannot withstand their desolate backyards. A scree of black curb can be crossed, only if the heavily shod mash and smash through. Are we in the end days or in an age of small uncertain fears that cannot now truly thaw? We slip along uncover small pockets of glee in these long frozen hours where exhausted minds sleep and walk. Death is upended, lungs mask against a stabbing air, small ice sculptures appear in snowy humps and heaps as if this time will always be congealed, nailed like this to scraps of eternity. Later, these days, with all there residue of lost souls will be swept way from the crusted edge of mall steps and clogged paths. Then it will be a different time, a forgotten time, one only recalled as a mist behind wintry eyes as we, all unmuffled now, glance backwards into yet another uncertain future.