The Half-Dead

The pond is half frozen.
The fish swim slowly to stay alive.
The line divides in the center.
Cold water reflects the shadows of the forest.
Smoky ice reflects the grey sky of winter.
Ice formed overnight.
From the edges, the solid crystal moved inward.
Fish gulped bread fast before the freeze.
A boy threw pebbles on the pond surface.
Hard stones made holes and found darkness.
The heavy rocks plunge down to the ground.
They shuffle the black bottom leaves below.
Hibernation creeps in on those below the ice.
They eat and move along the edge of entombment,
waiting for the sky to complete the circle.
The boy sends his final winter rocks into water.
He leaves more pebbles as outposts for the spring thaw.
Water will return with crusts of bread on its surface.
Birds will forage for hard winter's bread.
Boys will throw spring stones.
The pond sleeps and seals its bottom from human throws.
The fish circle and dream of pebbles and rocks.
They imagine large chunks of cold, wet bread above.
And take their places in the dark shadows of the half-dead.

The Skater

I found the skates behind my boots and loafers in the closet.
I brought them out to the pond to try them back on.
They still fit, even though the leather cracked and creased in dark and dust.
In my head, though, after lacing, was a painting of a skater.
His arms were crossed. His hair was white.
He had a sly grin and black hat on his head.
I laced the single blade skates and did a figure eight.
The grooves cut light marks on the icy pond.
Years ago, I wore a helmet. And carried a stick.
I bent my head down and charged my foes.
I dreamed of battles and frozen pucks in imagined nets.
I pressed and pressed until the ice buckled under the weight.
The cracks widened and the water swam out across the surface cracks.
It was not good to push down so hard.
Years later, I skated in the night.
With a bottle in hand, I laughed and fell and flailed.
The liquid spilled on the slippery ground, and so did I.
My body did revolutions until my spins hit the embankment.
My feet did not press at all. I spun in strange cold circles into mud.
My laughs resounded to the moutaintop windmills in the darkness.
My skates were caked with dirt and I had no balance.
It was not good to press too lightly.
Today, I smile as I skate the same pond.
My skates are tight, and they skim the frozen water, just right.
I do not see defenders in my path to the net, nor do I crawl up sloped
earth away from slippery water.
The ice doesn't break underneath my push and pull.
It does not send me falling and groping to the banks.
I am a skater now with my arms crossed, and a smile on my face,
without a race to run, or a crash to await.
I go about my circle.
I change my direction.
It is good to keep my balance with a gentle push.
The grooved lines are drawn over water.
They freeze and melt in time.
And disappear with the thaw.
And I, I keep my course.
And continue skating,
until I tire, and slowly, take the skates off,
and go back inside to rest. 

Tree Pit

He says they grow alone.
Trees grow in carved pits along sidewalks.
Sometimes the roots crack the pavement.
Projections pull upward against downward pressure.
The trees do not compare themselves to other trees.
They grow and go forward.
They find air, light and shadow.
Sometimes they topple with wind.
They buckle under snow and rain.
They die from disease in the roots.
I like tree pits on city streets.
I sense their task, to be.
To be in a place and grow to the sky.
Find the air and light and accept the shadows.
Let the roots find rain in soil.
Maybe it's a good thing, to be a tree,
and grow alone, wherever you are,
even if it is not a forest,
or a park with a lake,
or a backyard with a pool.
Maybe a tree pit on a cracked city street should and will suffice.

A Box to Fill

Tucked under the eave of the roof is a box.
I dust off the cover and open the broken latch.
Inside there is only paper and photographs.
Portraits and landcapes. Still lives and abstract art.
The paper is filled with declarations of independence,
vows of heavenly bliss,
and staggering isolation manifestos.
Long sweeps of lines, sentiments and sorrows.
Sex and souls. Singularity and purpose.
The words are mine and yours.
There is room in the box, time to fill it with more
paper and pictures and patterns.
All of it to be stored away in a box.
I draw the images near my face and suck in their dust.
The things smell and sound like life.
They crinkle with my touch.
I detect a faint odor of must.
I make room for more in the box.
I close the lid to light.
 

An Electric Line

Electricity severed.
Black line draped across a hood, upon a fence, through a hedge, in my head.
I saw cut strands, where the black rubber disappeared, revealing the inner silver streak.
The insides no longer have an energy all their own.
The do not carry messages in the air.
After the fall, the line died.
People cursed the dark.
They made new lines.
My feet avoid them where the lines form and fall at will.
Circuits ran the sky under trees.
Wood poles once held them high.
Branches and winds make snakes of them now.
They wiggle with a last frightful creep on the ground.
Flames arose from silver chord fangs like hissing tongues.
Many serprents have the power to consume.
My street absorbed the sparks in puddled water.
Scaly currents leaped and charged the night.
Soon, the snakes will be put back to bed after death.
Men with tools and flashing lights raise ladders.
They put them back into place and pray.
Water and wind can make cowards of us all.
Our ideas in the sky can be cut,
and have to learn to crawl.