Ice

Ice

The pond has stopped breathing,

a glass heart trapped beneath winter’s hand.

I kneel and see my face upon its surface, shimmering,

as though even my reflection is cold.

Trees stand silver and rigid,

branches like frozen veins against a colourless sky,

and the wind holds its breath,

waiting for something to break.

Ice is a quiet warden,

it keeps and guards and never yields,

beautiful as crystal,

faithless as fear.

How many lives stay frozen,

not from lack of warmth,

but from the terror of change,

the dread of cracking open?

I touch the surface,

feel the chill travel through my skin,

and suddenly I understand:

to thaw is to risk the fall,

but to stay frozen is to never move at all.

When spring finally comes,

I hope I melt with it,

flowing free again, without regret.