(from the vaults)
I once upon a time lived in this place
where there was never a spring –
only breakup. Breakup is when the last trace
of binding ice melts, and the only thing
that’s left is mud. Mud you sink right down in,
past the top of your high-top boots,
mud deep deep down enough to drown in,
down to where the worms crawl through the roots
of stunted trees, until you hit another sheet of ice,
the kind of ice that never melts. It’s permafrost:
a cold dark place under the mud – no sun – not nice.
The kind of place where a soul gets lost.
I like it better now there’s a spring – warmth below and above,
and flowers, and the promise of hope – and no mud – and love.