His study was the ice, how it would flow
slower than glass and cut beneath its weight
harder than diamond. Does not love or hate –
ice merely is. That’s what he came to know
deeper than bones or breath. He went to war
and took his knowledge with him. War is ice
that grinds things down. He brought survivors twice
from wrecks smothered in cold. Went back once more
and three’s the charm. Ice knew him, split. He fell
into its cold hard heart and falls there still.
He flows with it, held falling, ground until
his bones are crystal dust. His breath as well.
Cracked into crazy puzzles, winter’s art,
puts splinters into every knowing heart.