It is a village on the living tundra
\nof the ice.
\nSmall huts where a man or woman
\ncan retreat deep in their thoughts.
\nA string between their fingers,
\nfishing for something whose thoughts
\nare less dark than their own.
\nLess illusive than the shadows
\nand roaring wind outside the walls
\naround them<\/p>\n
Where they can escape without dying,
\nor die, but not go over the river Styx
\nand be lost.
\nAlong its shore where life
\ndoesn\u2019t follow.
\nDoesn\u2019t disturb the solitude one finds.
\nThat calms ache and crying inside life.
\nA sanctuary on the thin ice of oblivion,
\nsweet and full of tenderness.
\nThe clear ice of tears and dreams.<\/p>\n
And now and again
\na shout in the bitter cold,
\nbetween their legs
\na yank on the line.
\nThe tension of one thing calling another.
\nLike love signaling to love.
\nThrowing off its mask,
\nand fighting the other,
\nto be pulled to the warmth of its
\nconqueror.<\/p>\n
While unbeknown
\nanother fate is negotiated by the wind
\nand current,
\ndragging the ice beyond the safety
\nof the shore,
\nbeyond the reach of prey or predator.
\nBeyond the island of their war.
\nThe fisherman pulls his catch through
\nthe hole, to land the silver violence
\nof the fish at his feet,
\nwhile the white death of the ice
\nseals his fate.
\nThe hut drifting away into the wind,
\nto its drowning in the depths
\nof the cold.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It is a village on the living tundra of the ice. Small huts where a man or woman can retreat deep in their thoughts. A…<\/p>\n