did I fly south of my wound?

[ did I fly south of my wound? ]

How long had snow lingered in this awkward place?
The sun burns through snow. Time works this way
until nothing is left. Out on the lake
I stand frozen on the ice. The lake believes
profusely in its shallows, like I do
and everybody who just stepped out
all turned blue. I found I was alone,
or vice versa. I had hoped to find something
in my reflection because I wanted to love
the depth of my dreams. We have every right
to expect wonderful things, planned or unplanned,
or to create a sharp contrast by the softest light.
The sky is quiet, the flatness of afternoon
erases what I thought was thought.
I see the root of the matter: small bodies
in the wan and graying sky, with feeling,
planted in dark ground, wait for their sense
to flower against sky. A season is a novella
remodeling itself. The habit of my eyes recall
what freedom's like, from there I gave away.
What I remember most about winter
is how everything falls silent.
The birds are dead at last. Noonday gloom.
Tomorrow will be just like today.
Only every moment will change;
as I become (in)visible,
cracks in ice.
* * * * *