Thompson's Frozen Meadow


Losing sight of all things human, 

    The melting marsh an alien place,

We were not invited here, 

    Though we need not be unwelcomed.

The breeze-carried voice of a distant finch 

    Brushes my soul.

        I receive it again as familiar.

Raucous crows call the air to motion;

    A rowdy dance through leaves long lingering 

    On trees prepared to greet the equinox.

    

Nothing here is common.

    Behemoths slumber deep in ooze below.

Illusion sings the red-winged's song

    As the ghost of a rail 

        Skirts through fallen reeds.

This flaccid place awaits 

    The returning flow of green to erect cattails.

    For now, snow dances 

        To the music of melting ice.



Withhold your ecstasy, 

    Hold tight your frozen potency,

    The time is not yet to unleash your seed.
Copyright � 1996 Ian Lynch. All rights reserved