Antennas

after “Path on the Ice” by Akseli Gallen-Kallela
 
Not so much trees as
antennas. Masts made
of thin trunks speared
into the wet snow,
a few green needles
to catch the radio waves
playing our song. I listen
 
to the caramel-colored
slush shift and trickle
under the carpet of daylight.
Puzzle-piece ice breaks.
Dark water opening
its many eyes. Remember
our first thaw?
 
I don’t. Or rather, I can
only remember earth,
soft and cold and gleaming
where the sun had eaten
snow into diamonds.
One day, winter. The next,
joyous green. We danced
 
like shaking saplings,
like antennas in the wind.
What does it say about me
that I think about this now
on a late summer day?
Sometimes ice melts too
fast, even when I want it gone.

Share!