The Icicles

From my coign under the eaves pillars of ice verge on the sky. Sunlight glistens inside the pillars like light through stained glass, bending and warping yellow. Sundrops slide down the icicles and fall into mounds of snow. The sky hangs behind the pillars like an ironed blue cloth.

I float up past the icicles into the sky. Beneath my feet the hill banks to an aquamarine lake; I float to the sun. I float downward, hovering above the snow then water. Lowering I expect the water to soak and freeze me, but the aquamarine closes around my waist coolly. As I sink to my neck I notice others treading. They wear moonglasses over which long unkempt brown hair tangles. Tread.

Above my head clouds drift past. The clouds float as light as feathers, lighter, they go slowly down the wind. The topmost leaves of a tree, drained chlorophyll turning molten, scratch against the blue. Whine and moan of traffic: cars drag sighing: sun smoking off the morning world.

—Where were you last night?
—In a lake…
—Where the water was blue green?
—And you drifted above the water, floating, before gravity slowly eased you down its net?
—I thought it would be cold…
—Not cool?
—I think I tread for hours.

Then I climbed out. I laid myself on a patch of snow at the lake’s edge. On my back it felt like velvet; I closed my eyes and the sun warmed me. I felt such a pureness of heart then. It was as if all worries and flesh had melted. Am I transparent? Light filled me; and as I looked out at the world of snow I felt drops coasting from my neck to arms. No transition and no surprise, I felt the blood turning to glass under my skin, and I knew.

Now I wait on the wheelbarrow sun. Day by day, minute by minute, my particles slough and trickle to the lake, sometimes replenished by the blows of rain, or given reprieve by stars and cloud. Slowly I join the lake, where people tread and will tread ever.

My love.

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