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I live with the ice man
by Kristina Woodhilleager brown shining man eyes
look outside;
mercury is dipping
its thin red finger,
stirring and
pushing down firmly
thirty two degrees of cold
it is the signal to prepare
long worn blue jeans
are zipped up
long sleeved flannel shirt
is buttoned down
work shoes appear
tied tightly
add an old blue coat with
a gritty zipper
teeth firmly closed
against any chatter
an orange, blue,
and yellow-patterned
knit cap is pulled down hard
over bare-skin ears,
dark blue caribou circle
round the cap's knitted middle
nodding with anticipation
and approval with
each up and down motion
of the focused head
busy bumble bee hands
find a first layering
of fuzzy black stretchy warmth
overlaid by much larger, longer
bright yellow sturdy plastic gloves,
like pollen-covered legs
gently caressing
eagerly purring flowers
it is the signal to begin
steps hurry now,
following a builder's mind;
the red bucket brigade
quickly carries water
to the outside concrete slab
where cut-off bottoms of
plastic liter bottles
and cover-less margarine plastic pints
are arranged in neat rows
frozen forms are removed
and whimsical columns
rise up, funky castle walls glued
together by water poured
slowly down by a benevolent
pinpoint rain god;
funny globs and inner bubbles
draw the observer closer to
flick the surfaces with a finger,
checking for a sideways break-through
or tiny fish with tiny puckered mouths
each day's magic of the melt
brings new adaptations;
an odd frozen flat shape
from the bottom of a bucket
becomes a shelf,
water melded
to the side of a column;
other shelves appear
and stair step up
a central
riser
by day the ice man cajoles
kindly with the ever moving sun,
negotiating a cloud or two
for later afternoon
keeping an old piece of plywood
available for walling off
a burst of spring initiative
nervous pacing of the mind
occupies part of the late evening hours;
weather stations spin windy
tales of tomorrow's temperatures,
winter's palm is read and reread
for hints of a long life line;
the remaining hours, however,
belong to the woman
with the fiery blue eyes
it is the signal to relinquish
casting aside the day's
hard working cold layers
the kindling is carefully set,
each slim stick laid and
interwoven with the next
on a firm bed of imaginings;
the struck match sparks
inner ionosphere's
enveloping aurorae
where fire and ice mix,
and melting becomes
the only option
02/12/2009
Posted on 02/13/2009
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Greg Williams on 02/13/09 at 05:32 AM Ah, reminds me of snowy, unpredictable winters of my past and all the ups and downs of the perpetual cold, then warm then cold again. Good work. |
| Posted by Gregory O'Neill on 02/13/09 at 05:33 AM ...he cometh and (evbentually, slowly) he leaveth.I'm ready and watching too....there are still some stubborn spots thaty won't give up easily....nice write. Thanks. |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 02/13/09 at 02:18 PM Spring will come maybe! But the weather man has no clue. He throws his dice and makes his prediction. You made me cold just thinking about it. Good write lady. |
| Posted by Charles E Minshall on 02/13/09 at 07:30 PM Fun to read Kris....CharMin |
| Posted by Joan Serratelli on 02/13/09 at 09:22 PM This definitely was a fun read....and oh, so true! Thanks for this piece! |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 02/15/09 at 03:03 PM Excellent descriptiveness Kristina, quite the story poem. I felt I was right there in the picture with you. Thanks for sharing this! :o) |
| Posted by Rhiannon Jones on 02/17/09 at 03:32 AM The ice artist....nice. Do you know of Andy Goldsworthy's art? |
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