Ice
The pond has stopped breathing,
a glass heart trapped beneath winter’s hand.
I kneel and see my face upon its surface, shimmering,
as though even my reflection is cold.
Trees stand silver and rigid,
branches like frozen veins against a colourless sky,
and the wind holds its breath,
waiting for something to break.
Ice is a quiet warden,
it keeps and guards and never yields,
beautiful as crystal,
faithless as fear.
How many lives stay frozen,
not from lack of warmth,
but from the terror of change,
the dread of cracking open?
I touch the surface,
feel the chill travel through my skin,
and suddenly I understand:
to thaw is to risk the fall,
but to stay frozen is to never move at all.
When spring finally comes,
I hope I melt with it,
flowing free again, without regret.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (4)
Good job on the good and bad of ICE.
This is so beautifully done! The pond has stopped breathing … a glass heart. Great work, Marie😍
Marie was very surreptitious in invoking purgatory with her description of the fragile Ice: if it thaws, means death. But to refrain from any muscle movement means freezimg. I really liked that. Many philosophers and theologians throughout history have likened hell, rather than a burning furnace, but a frozen lake.
Thank you for reading