Ice I

Oh so smooth, inviting, sparky in the distance
As if it would catch fire from moonbeams.

It says glide onto my face, cut my boots
In its surface, spin until I lose unease 

In dizziness.  This winter picture dangerously
Cold this time of year, the pond exhaling its solid

Liquid clear and white, looks strong to walk upon.
And from there, the view of here will be all

Clarity and silver air.  I suspect that under there
Currents move which are not clean, not

Wholesome.  I think its inner life is dark with
Mud quagmires and tangled weed.  If its surface

Groaned and split, that squealing ice would
Swallow down my feet, scoring skin before

I even knew I was not living.  My freezing
Whole would be instant and deadly.  That cold

Leaves deep teethmarks, etches bone with ease
And no amount of struggling could retrace a path

From here to there and back again.  I would be
Down under that thick mirror soldered over 

With fresh batches of ice.  I would spend eternity
Suspended and hardening, a cryogenic chamber

Of life turned cold, thought rotting in solid water.
At the Aeon's turn, the thaw would leave me so

Soggy I'd never be dry enough to negotiate limbs,
To re-grow brains and pirouette neat as a new pin.

No, I won't venture in.

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