Sea of Ice and Green Fog

Blow the sun

ahead of me

as I wander the waves

of time.

Life and death

surround my keel,

lapping,

laughing

as I constantly struggle

for mastery

of the sails.

My allies, the winds;

my bane, the bottom;

my life, the sea;

we need each other,

feed each other.

Home is the deck

that moves beneath

my feet.

My family, my crew.

I am grandfather,

father,

uncle, or

brother.

I find the sea

can be tolerant,

belligerent,

or angry.

But now

too often,

too angry.

I have heard the stories,

and lived through a few.

Of ice

creeping south

turning ships

into statues.

Monsters

from the deep

swallowing ships whole.

Of gray fog

descending,

dragging men

to the bottom.

Even so,

my heading

is the heart

of these tales.

The sea

is blowing splinters

that can slice flesh

as we carefully

cut our way

further north.

We are well-braced

against the cold,

yet

I can feel my blood slow

as the fog

slides into my soul.

I know my crew

can feel it too,

and I see them

glance my way.

“Stand fast,”

I order

in a calm voice.

I scan the reason

for this risky journey.

My two travelers

standing silent

at the bow.

Brother

and sister

who appear unaffected

by the creep of the ice

or the grayness of the fog.

Their stillness is

so different

from when they boarded—

hugging,

trading stories,

and falling

back into childhood

teasing habits—

as if the years

had never

separated them.

It made me wish

I had a sister,

the opposite side

of the same family

coin.

I worry

if we go much further

we may, none of us,

make it back.

But,

if there is a chance

these two

can return the sea

to me and mine,

I will persevere.

As we inch

closer to our destination,

I watch their hands entwine

and squeeze for a moment.

Without warning,

they are no longer

on my deck,

but on the ice,

well ahead of my bow,

and the ice

is already

covering their feet.

My instinct

is to pull them back,

but I have been warned

not to interfere.

I strain to hear

what they are saying,

but the crackling ice

creeping up my hull

is deafening.

I struggle

to see the witch pair

as the thick, gray fog

eddies around us.

Then a heartbeat later

the fog lifts

above our heads,

silence descends,

and I see

two ice statues

holding hands.

Slowly

they slip through the ice,

the fog following them

under the ice,

under the sea,

for the rest

that only comes

on the bottom.

I turn from the bow

to see relief,

clear skies,

and a protective green fog

as though lit from below

swirling around my keel.

I look back

and see the ice receding

away from my ship.

“Come about,”

I order,

looking forward

to the next port.

I have a new tale

to tell,

two heroes

to toast.