I am slow
as an iceberg
moving in still waters
coaxed by unseen currents
to drift to their whim
and I may never be the same
bobbing in a heavy laden
way my bulk prohibiting
any sudden play for
freedom from the warm
stream that will melt
me imperceptibly away
layer by cold layer
I become one small
ice cake diminishing
less than nothing in the
weft and pass of
so much steadfast fluid
liquid water.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem