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Ice Steeples, Road Signs
By Robert S. King
From light years apart the stars sleet
down into the same wet blanket of ice,
a jagged indifference, a global cube, a crack in the safe,
all-night snaps and spiritual shudders of earthly things.
The power goes off;
I am left with cold logic
and a hearth of lowering flames.
The North Star blossoms into frost,
now the sign to leave, not to follow.
Our numb helping hands
touch across radio waves;
our fingers break like bridges.
The weak channel crackles,
echoes of ghosts and snapping pines.
Weather prophets issue traveller’s warnings:
accidents, signs of ducks frozen to the lake,
bucks locked by the horns of dilemma,
olive branches shattering like glass.
Tonight I chip away the cold pieces of myself,
watch the fallen stars wink briefly
from their ancient hearts,
their white fires freezing in
touch with earth.
I go back inside, await artificial light.
The smoky fire I breathed back to life
goes up in cloud,
falls back as ice:
stalagmite beds or nails to dream on,
to feel their points search inside me
for a warmer way.
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