They pull out the aluminum tray,
lift up the handle and CRACK!
translucent cubes of cold
to chill the young mowers of the lawn.
The ice was free on mountain tops,
hauled down to ancient Eurasian cities,
mixed with honey, fruit, saffron,
and sold for a fraction of a drachma.
What a fine treat for a hoplite going off to a summer war.
Frozen water -
isn't that rigor mortis locking
the promiscuous, bipolar (oops),
I mean dipolar, H-O-H molecules
into hexangonal crystals,
a form too sublime and
too terrible for warm-blooded life.
And what about all the little girls
with their hand-me-down skates
twirling on the frozen lake,
on the thin ice of spring?
Oksana Baiul performing
the fluttering swan routine,
her almost naked, perfect, white body
lying prone on Zamboni's sheet
waiting for the judges' rosewater,
waiting for the next ice age.