The Job of Ice

St. Paul, mid-January, car to daycare, 
typical sidewalk patchwork: 
compacted snow, scraped concrete,
shiny ice, a sharp, abbreviated 
slip that doesn’t quite end 
with a fall. I hate the ice, I say. 
What even is the job of ice? asks my son.
In summer I detailed the jobs 
of worms, mosquitos, rain, bees, 
convincing him the world’s 
annoyances have worthwhile roles to play. 
 
Ice insulates the waiting seeds, 
protects them through winter’s 
damaging cold. Ice cracks open
rocks, lets roots in. Ice turns back 
to water, feeds plants and rivers,
animals and birds. Ice reflects 
sunlight and radiation to keep, to try 
to keep, our planet healthy. 
Ice makes us walk slowly. Ice asks us 
to consider the ways water, air, 
and earth interact. Ice reminds us 
fragility is not just about bones.

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