Ice Land

The stream never froze,
despite the arctic cold.
It grew a crackly crust –
burnt sugar on top of crème brûlée –
that broke like crystal when we crossed it.

The stream never froze,
but everything else did.
We slipped and fell,
or saved ourselves by grabbing a tree.
Finding a bit of crunchy snow
or rock-like mud to walk on
was a comfort.

The stream kept moving,
so we did too.
Across that land of ice,
where everything was hard,
when we lived in ice land.



About the Poet:  Sheila Wellehan’s poetry is recently featured or forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, the Aurorean, Menacing Hedge, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Visit her online at .


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