In cold winters, water spates into sculptured ice;
opaque embodiments frozen in motion.
Art almost living, as it creaks and crests,
tumbling toward some other birth.
Lovers come here, drunk teenagers,
and just drunks.
Empty beer cans roll or fill with a gritty snow.
Someone has spray-painted red words on a rock face.
Sunlight quickens a glittering ice figure
it could be a porpoise surfing an arc of exhilaration,
it could be the form of an eagle taking off,
only now I see the shape of a sullen, resentful youth.
Perception is everything.
Why does that painted expletive feel so personal?
Maybe it’s because the beauty here is defiled,
or maybe I want to see something that is not here.
A gust of hurdy-gurdy wind guffaws
as I turn away.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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