The Crackling.

When I freeze,
stubbornly
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
thread.

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
formalized
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.

Early Morning in a Parisian Sky

Ah, so this is how it is, to be God?

Surrender my eyes down on to the clouds,
their brilliant heads, birthright of the Angels.
Being chased infinitely by waters
who jealously reflect the truth of my
skies, who jealously upskirt my cloud's sex.

"Give us rain!" they cry. "Descend to our form!"
"Fill us up, then we will Love you!" they lie,
swelling the more with each honey-dropped kiss.
Consuming the lover of my dear Sky.

Swallow the Earth. Give Nothing Back. The Sun
will play the thief, restore what I create.
You will feel his heat blister your surface.
You will curse me and wish you had the hands
to reach up, feel the cloud's thick-heated thigh
that the sun warmed with his glorious rays.

You forget, I see all the wrong that you do.

Yet though stars & moon brush against my face
from this great bird's eye, I can't help wonder
what it is you see from your point of view.

Black and Smooth