Black earth, wet earth, first smell of spring.
We walk around the lake where the smashed ice lies in loose low heaps like scree,
Where the lake, refrozen now, broke and spilled it in the wind.
Our feet slide beneath us in the steel gray evening.
A mallard shot open spreads its frozen inseisde of the ice, thick and red
around its waxy yellow organs rimmed with iridescent feather blue and green,
a scrap thrown up, a treasure of the splintering thaw.
From: Morrow, Susan Brind, “Thaw” in Periphery: A Journal of Word and Image, No. 2, Spring 2019, p. 16.
(https://issuu.com/peripheryjournal/docs/03072019_issuu_copy)
Date: 2019
By: Susan Brind Morrow (1958- )
From Troubles of The World 