I’m cold like icicles drip to the cement,
Small icicles, not the sword sized ones
Strong enough to hurt. Cold like before
Summer Sets begin, like the snowflakes
on a polar bear’s snout about to melt.
But I don’t move at all.

Don’t see the whirling stars pass above,
Past the church bell tower, or the high flag pole.
Even the dust of harvest’s tired tread
Doesn’t allow me the silentest of sneezes.
I’m a pine tree trunk long since grown in,
But I don’t notice at all.

Not even the hissing escape of your molded breath
Stimulates my static ears. Your animated gestures
twitches your wild hair; undulating with movement
A sine wave of once straight gloss,
It catches in your eyebrows, and your
Hand sweeps it aside.

I’m hypnotized as you rage in frenzy.
While your violent words melt the icicle,
I meld with the polar sweat, and motionless,
Envy the silent moving stars.
My eyes sway to your rhythmic hair,
But you don’t notice at all.

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