by Tricia Elliott
Look with me
across this ice patterned ground
past the frost boils, the polygons, and scoured shield rock.
Let the wind lift this top casing, this skin of sphagnum and sedge.
It scatters easily
among the waving cottongrass, beneath ptarmigan and hare.
Let the midnight sun slide
on its slanty ridge roll
and gild your conical slopes, volcanic,
like the mountains. We wait,
cloaked in rose and awe,
for your undoing.
This is the scary part.
Yes, I know you are scared.
But the freedom is in the melting,
and in the flow of possibility,
Look to the lupine, the snowy owl, the string bog.
They will tell you of moonlight, solifluction, and birch.
They will tell you to trust
that nature does not, in fact,
abhor the vacuum, but
adores it. It delights in rushing
to fill it,
Now is your time
That ice core, that frozen magma
has kept you out of reach
for long enough.
change the light
in your own way.
You belong here,
whatever your form.