Hiding in Ice
I would like to hide from the world;
the ice mansion of Dr. Zhivago.
only one white road in and out.
In winter, flames rainbow the icicles.
A small room — walnut table and chair—
used envelopes for starting poems.
In spring, lingering smell of ashes.
Gnashing of ice floes in the river.
Summer would bring nesting
Snowy owls and haunting loons.
Autumn and the dying sun creep up on me.
