Thaw

From Split Rock Review • Issue 21

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Icy notes float in brittle air sharp as harp, tight
with resistance, transparent glaze, sheets of frozen time
that grip each drop. White sun bites edges, pierces,
plucks crystal notes like drops of sweet wet that wait
to drip from beneath ice thin as skin. Under chill
skin, blue blood stiff with winter’s slick bite,
so still it’s as if this ice has stuck tight
what might never be right. Yet
through the bright, a slender sound
rises, a red bird slices across white sky,
red feathers a brave flare flitting up.
Deep drop of blood-red alights
on black bare branches against
white light, holds tight
to tangled twigs high
above iced ground. Crimson
cardinal calls its cold note,
trills out, cracks last restraint,
coaxes thin layers glazing
lakes and walks to splinter
glass skin, signal time’s flow
again, the slow letting go
of drops under the skin,
one-by-one, like
chill bird
song.