Ice (a poem for winter)
Moonlight, grey and cold, bestows A sanctity On spindly branches Creaking to be free Of imprisoning silvered glass. Winter’s kiss Has rendered them quickly dead. Skeletons part To grant me the wide, Open water. I Press my palms to its arctic smooth, Feel for life. Along this span of icy Blue, I will take Back my living will, Knife blades to the soles Of my feet inseparably strapped, Razor edge To the thick hard cold under Me. My wake will Leave wounds which do not Fill, even as I Heal and am gone, scars to remain Until dawn.