By Brian P. McLean as read to you by Brian P. McLean

You are become a frozen lake.
A thing inscrutable to itself.
A temporary bridge for animals.
An icy skin stretched across flesh and bone.

In winter across you the wind blows snowflakes in flurries,
Scurrying to reach the safety of your shores.
In winter you are most constant and silent —
Within your icy tomb nothing occurs.

At the spring thaw you trap animals unaware.
As they sink within you they struggle for air.
But do they die for lack of air or from the cold
Or merely from growing old?

In the paroxysm of spring you arch up and back upon yourself
And break.

You need die. The animals will leave
If you must forever become a frozen lake.

August 1983