I swam under the ice
to see the hard surface
of its sky.
Nothing can fly there.
It holds itself in eternal fastness,
like a pure stone
laid on top of the earth.
The wind is sleeping inside it.
Only light
can race through its heart.
It will never evaporate
into the heavens,
or fill a blue sea with clouds.
It will never wail with anguish,
or throw swords of fire into rocks,
and leave Excaliburs
to be drawn out by kings.
It will never trail fingers
through my hair,
and claim me with its touch.
It will never carry
the voices of love and sorrow,
recite poems,
say gentle things.
It will keep under its weight
the gliding of fish,
the flowering of kelp,
the jade of subdued tomb,
be the cover of a glistening
sarcophagus.
Ice that never melts
or weeps with rain.