Walking on water

Sundays are for ice cream...

We wait

The ice, you see
is only water frozen,
not this sea of glass
and sharded tracks to hobble
ankles, fetlocks, paws.

There is a green expanse beneath,
miraculous as dirt -
as micro-life that doesn’t die
because this day is cold
and grey and 
dry; cut off from 
air by ice so hard so
pitiless so sharp -

One moment all is angles
jagged knives and mirrored sheen;
then almost as if temperature, 
alchemic and capricious, 
turned and smiled,
suddenly the 
water
seeps back in
and dirt resumes
its interrupted
never-ending 
spring…

~ Lynn Lundell, ©2026