Pingo 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,

of disassembly.

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

to open.

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.

Tricia Elliott

Tricia Elliott is an emerging writer who lives in a yurt in Alaska with her husband, two girls (ages seven and nine), and two dogs. She is an odd combination of physician and mystic, teacher and perpetual student, wilderness enthusiast and advocate of human nature. She finds joy in tracking wildlife, photographing the sublime, and endeavoring always to live and love and play like her dogs do, every day.

You might like . . .

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This
Skip to content