Ice Out
       

The south wind discovers a loose thread
and winter begins to unravel.
The first black and blue butterfly
materializes. The second.
They find each other.

The snow fort is in ruins.
Stacks of ammunition
have melted into the grass.
A floatplane with stiff wings
banks over the pines, turning north;
an eagle, too, searches for open water.

Open water. A window to the bottom.
Sometimes the water is so clear
that it hardly exists
except as a change in viscosity.
The island has its moat again,
the moon its mirror.

Copyright © 2009 Connie Wanek All rights reserved
from On Speaking Terms
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission