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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “And I Disappear” Down in the Dirt, v192 (the 2/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

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The Ice that was

Jeffrey Marshall

Somehow the ice stayed firm in the river that year, strong enough for us to trudge across
Like Peary, minus his sled dogs. The bitter ice, hard and obdurate like the shell of a clam
Braced us like an oaken floor, timbers hewn long ago, not luring us with hidden treachery
And then the rains came, and the softening came, and the water sat still on the ice ledges
Like tidepools. We stayed home as the freezing fog lowered its curtain of gray
And we thought of May, when ice was a memory and the maple seeds came pinwheeling down.
The next year, we remembered, was a turnabout. The ice was a scarce visitor, a lodger
Who had misplaced his key, seen only fitfully as the frigid winds stayed north.
A polar vortex did come down that winter, but it was distant as the six o’clock news.
We were young then, green with the newness of things that makes memories last
But now our clambering days are done, and the ice is a nuisance and a reminder
Of how Old Man Winter wags his finger and locks his heart in its glistening chamber.

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