A screen of ice has pinned my body to a puddle.
Caught between the surface and the depths,
my fluted edges have been numbed and blurred,
robbing me of external definition.
The blessed sun has melted my face to visibility,
fooling viewers with its tawny cheer.
In fact, the roots of my smile do not reach the deepest veins,
which await the body’s liberation
from the clutches of cold fear.
Testifying to repressed power,
iced etchings trace the shapes of submerged wings,
wavy carvings that design their whims
as they skate on the very surface they groove.
The stem lives in contradiction;
part of it captured in ice
but the tail released from confinement.
Not gripped by the dark blue crystals,
nor defined by white scratches,
this licensed grace heartens,
strengthens desire for freedom
to be lifted whole from this chill bed.
Hopeful of return to movement,
the blood irrigates polar and temperate veins alike
whether I believe in restoration or not.
If I desire to be more fully alive,
I must warm and be warmed —
fueling faith in winter’s end.