Ice cubes spilled from the tray,
Glistening cold like a rock,
Then, sweating drops from sun’s ray,
A change of form, like a shock.
Winter approaches, but daylight lengthens,
Fears end about growth of dark night,
Hope for shinning rays will strengthen,
The natural pattern is like a rite.
My partners in the southern hemisphere,
Move, too, to greeting spring sun,
Their waiting is, also, a transition dear,
Nature’s seasons are skillfully spun.
A time of change to embrace,
Mortality burns a gem-hard flame,
Earth’s sphere is filled with grace,
To touch souls in her domain.
Hard-ice souls can transform to gas,
Sublimation’s spirit gives me a pass.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.