All My Flowers
I know ice whalebone white
green and turquoise,
milky ice, ice blood-red
when the algae blooms; candle ice, pack ice,
pancake ice, and cat ice that glazes
water so thinly a breath would shatter it;
loose crystals in a salt-water slurry;
young ice and its false maturity.
I know the way fast ice locks on
and doesn’t let go;
the gray moire of grease ice, its sheen
of watermarked silk skimming the sea;
and fog ice, mists of diamond dust
that cancel skies, that conjure
multiple and dazzling suns,
bounce prisms, throw halos,
suspend a snow field, inverted, in midair.
The ice gives birth to ice.
The first filaments of ice mating are frazil ice.
Once it develops and grows muscular
Ice battles ice.
The ice barrage explodes in a din
Of booms, cannonades, cracks loud as rifle shots.
And when the ice buries ice
it is entombed with ancient atmospheres.
All my hours are ice hours.
All my flowers are ice flowers.
"All My Flowers," by Marion Starling Boyer, published by The Pedestal Magazine, issue #85.
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