Monday, February 26, 2018
At a touch, the pane of ice jigsaws, cracks
To diamond scatter, hard cold clouds
Clustered against a mountain chain.
One large shard holds its shape, tracks
Its slow starfish way down the windshield, crowds
Out ever smaller nicks of ice. The rain
Will soon steal its contours, but for a while
It is my continent, rhododendron,
Moth wing, milk spill, embryo, no Atlantis
Or Antarctica, but a sunken isle
I've named Atlantica, frozen cauldron
Filled with snowstorms, a far home, locked atlas,
Fighting to recall the word and reclaim
Myself from a place that has taken my name.
Topic(s) of this poem: winter