A Prayer to the Frost

I.

Winter draws black strings and unties me,
walking a chipped sky to placid lakes
where mist threads into water; these mirrors
seek the sky, and turn back all
that is unbrushed, imperfect growth.

I walk here to become liquid cold, and beg
that these depths might know me.
I am a strange visitor and the water is not
as expected, even frozen in prayer.
I watch her in the depths as I bow
and she looks as though she once knew me.

I would like a chance (more than a chance)
to waver before the unknown, and rest
because my will has flown, and I have
been driven by love to find you,
but the grass is cold, wilted by frost,
and your reply, as of yet, unknown.

II.

She is weary
and she leaned over me
to speak, but did not

she is the color
of my garden;
here is the flaw
that makes perfection,
like a rose
grown wild

she could not speak
to say, and I would not
listen, for to know her
is to see her lips move
and her breath
to cross my surface

dip your hands in my hands, child,
for my answer is given


III.

The air is dampened light, sifting
weak through the leaves; they
fall through the water. Numb hands
break the surface;

I have come here to collapse
into you, to concave as a mountain's
wall, and crumble, tight
in the embrace of water
where I die a second breath.
Your depths are a sacrament
and I do not stumble before you,
but kneel, for my prayer to the frost
is your name, and my surface is
your reflection, and my hands
are made warm by your love.