Having melted the snow above it,
a black stone glistens
in its pit.
All thaws seem abrupt.
Lichens slicked with meltwater
glow a lurid green.
I’m feverish—might I, too,
burn a hole
clear through to spring?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
For what it’s worth, I see that this is the sixth post titled “Thaw” at Via Negativa; Luisa and I have now each written three posts with that title. It’s just a good word, I guess.
This poem’s terrific.
It is? Thanks. I’m honestly too sick to tell.
So sorry for non-metaphoric illness, but I too love the febrile result.
Oh good! And I seem to be on the upswing now, so probably today’s effort won’t be as inadvertently inspired.
This is outstanding. Fever so often produces great poems – but I hope you’ll soon be well.
Thanks! I am definitely on the mend now. I’m glad I run low fevers, actually. My mom doesn’t, and her colds last twice as long.