Glacier dropped,

a terminal moraine

begins where cold ended

where vast crests of ice

came to die

and dropped their stony load,

now covered with soil

a rocky cairn for times long gone.

A battered farmhouse sits on the hill

paint peels and broken windows gape.

ts decomposing carcass

where my childhood came to die.

A skeleton stripped of meaning,

a splintering wooden fossil

buried by time so shallow yet so viscous

it is now innocent in its post-senescence.

...

I am not.

...

I am a dirty phoenix,

the frost of the glaciers reborn.

The iceberg's gravel armors me

as tender skin could not

proof against the feverish, sweaty hands of a ghost

whose corpse has yet to die,

proof against his stifling weight

atop my childish form

which is nothing

compared to lying beneath ice

that endured for fifty thousand years or more.

If I could live a thousand lifetimes

perhaps the ice I have become might melt,

leaving only the strength of stones.