who is there
to witness the ice
as it gradually forms itself
from the cold rock-hard banks
to the middle of the river?
is the wind chill a factor?
does the water at some point
negotiate and agree to stop
moving and become frozen?
when you do not know the answers
to these immediately you are afraid,
and to even think in this inquisitive
manner is contrary to the precept
that life is in everything.
me, i am not a man;
i respect the river
for not knowing its secret,
for answers have nothing
to do with cause and occurrence.
it doesn’t matter how early
i wake to see the sun shine
through the ice-fishing hole;
only the ice along
with my foolishness
decides when
to break.
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