The hand of breaking glaciers
passes silver over the earth,
a river of ice, the trees all ashine,
their first blooms frozen in the blue forest
and even our words slide from the cold.
You’d think the world stopped
or battened down
its window for the night,
latched up the silver rivers,
iced over the creaking trees.
Outside only two herons
hold a heart of warmth
inside the invisible
embrace of danger,
the river freezing.
As I return home
I pull up a blanket, pull close the dog,
the cat, and watch the two silver herons
fly across crystallized glass.