The ice lets me know it’s not ready
with a peculiar noise:
half crack, half echo.
My heart freezes and climbs
through my throat into my head,
where it tries to look out from my nostrils.
My gut stays calm;
my skate blades adjust;
my path assumes a line to the edge.
The middle is not ready
to bear me on a journey
to the other side.
I have only to wait
for the season to deepen
and the ice to call.
(top: shambhalatimes.org; bottom: americablog.com)
Narble Furt Lives 
Good one narble!
Thanks! Sometimes, even a blind guitarist finds a lost chord.
I love the images.
Your ice is ready, Jim. 🙂
🙂
Thank you for visiting my blog and liking one of my posts. Blessings, Natalie 🙂
I love the poem and the sheeting ice. But the last image makes my head hurt! 😉