Wednesday, July 6, 2011

The Crackling.

When I freeze,
trudging, I begin.
and bitter.
agushinto a flow
into a babble, in to
a trickle.

When I freeze
I harden my children with me.
Their scales: steel blades.
exoskeletons like iron shields.
Their skin is battle leather.
All brought to a sinking halt
masked in heaps
of undyed, unraveled

When I freeze
its even, and transparent
down to the bed
where dirt has settled
with polished rock
discolored leaves
maybe two or three
spheres of air
as a gem for the eye.

From the banks
you will hear
a sound
as gentle as the sheets
that cover me.
My glass floor:
A world
just out of reach
for fear I will break
and consume you.