A Hole in the Ice

And when I leave you, 

It won’t be the gradual chill of winter mornings 

Found in the beginning of the season,

When berries hang fat and red on their stems

And birds puff up their feathers, 

Like old men hunched down in woolen scarves and mittens

Lovingly made by old women.

It will be a plunge into icy water, 

A brief pinprick as the heart shudders

And the limbs slacken, sinking into the lonely dark.

A fitting shock, a fitting end

For someone who thought my fire

Could be taken for granted,

And rekindled on a selfish whim.

– Sara Myriad