SECTION EIGHTEEN
POETRY PAGE FIVE

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COLUMN EIGHTY-EIGHT, APRIL 1, 2003
(Copyright 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)

THE LITTLE LAWS OF ICE MELTING

By the curb where I walk, miniature rivers
and mountains appear. The accumulated 
ice of winter melts and a landscape 
of compressed horizons weathers in a day.
This map dissolves to mist before my eyes.

To the west, shelves of granite protruded
against the clouds. Eons in their rise and fall,
sentinel for the sun, cut by rivers that only
recent bridges span, these continental giants 
are simply multiplied from powers at my feet.

Could nations be akin to melting ice, and just
accumulate their power from men asleep?
In some obscure bureaucracy, like rivulets
by the curb, a tyrant boss imposes fines,
or lovers break their word, and armies march.

From local miniatures to massive forces 
on the move, a line runs through the heart.
Some men may see the snowy peaks 
and marvel at their majesty, yet overlook
the blocks of ice still frozen at their feet.  ##

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