Don Perkins

The Ice

Few substances are so concrete.

We wait for you in winter.

It's not winter without ice.

We herald you

Like a distinguished guest:

"Gonna have ice this weekend," or

"The ice is here."

The solid clarity of Maine

Where we can stand upon you

And wring some fun from

The bleak weeks

Maybe set up a shack

Cut an opening

And look into a blackness

We can't know the bottom of.

Or ride snow sleds across you:

The temporary trails allow

Shortcuts and visits unheard of

In June.

Soon you'll be gone -

So cold and concrete, but you'll leave on your own timetable.

In a honeycombed transformation

And the ice traps will be stowed away.

Let the wealthy make snow

The ordinary want ice.