Breaking Ice, Back Tomorrow

by bobbymillerwriting

Through the gusting of the Lake we climbed,

slow waterfalls of rock, choosing the long way,

our hearts quivered and trembled to forget

 

the coldness of never-knowing through childhood

games and idle adventure. Only to circle back on ourselves,

looking for the darkest corners, hidden

 

in lake drenched stone. We sacrificed our fingers’ freedom for a chance

to fish pieces of memory froze knowable,

slats, from the water’s surface,

 

Portraits of the puddles’

faceless faces—we clutched the sheets of ice, barely,

did we understand that in smashing them

 

down to hear sweet mimicry of glass

shattering on rock, we had lost our way.

What hides in puddled shadows

 

of eroding rocks and fallen trees and freshwater spray?

To hold names is grasping a truth I cannot know after

breaking ice, back tomorrow.