POEM: TRANSITIONS

Transitions  
A filigree of ice
as delicate as the lips of a flower

or the touch of skin

forms in the space above

my car’s open window.

It hangs like lace,

like grandmother’s

fine needlework; a fluid web

caught between liquid and solid.

It’s brief moment captures light

never to be seen again

until the end of time.

And moving in our practical world

from water to ice to water again,

with temperatures and air pressure,

and the effects of metal and glass

helping to shape its form,

it must laugh with joy

to share the joke

with the only one there

to bear it witness.

I WROTE THIS SEVERAL YEARS AGO, SOME MARCH, when the last of winter was upon us and the sun was slowly melting everything. I was about to open my car door when I noticed some icicles had formed where I'd left my window partly down. It was like a gift, this delicate, lace-like configuration, that would be there for just a brief while longer, and then gone forever. For there will never be the same, exact combination of water, temperature, wind and all the other elements that go into creating something so beautiful. It was utterly unique. I knew it. And I think the ice did, too.

Cheers, Jake