On an Icy Planet Far Far Away
By: John Grey

Earth, for all this frozen water,
is still thirsty as a summer dog.
Even when rivers are far from running,
the sun never gives up on the ice,
thaws its thick crust, drip by drip.
But these white wastes are impervious
to that flatlining sun in the sky.

Remember April, and soil as boggy
as tar pits, while streams filled
up with melt, unleashed their demons,
in crashing waves of rock-pounding water.
All we have for seasons here are memories.
This solid layer doesn't budge.
The ground beneath is a cauldron of inactivity.

Forget anything growing.
This mass has long forgotten that it's merely H2O.
We tap. We chisel.
We wonder what was, what might have been.
But the present is speechless,
a glacier in stasis.

I am such a shill for seasons
so what am I doing here?
It's my head for science.
It lacks my heart's affinities.
It's a body all its own.


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