Frost Flowers

by on Jan 13, 2016

They break when touched –

so delicate and temporary
we only harvest them with our eyes.

Hairline cracks in weeds seep
an aura of bluish ice

like miniature glaciers inching
against the frozen grass.

Our breath is a curtain
we hide behind. In this field,

our suffering is white and hollow,
bitter in the space between us.

All night the world evolved
and we just sat there, waiting

for crownbeard and ironweed
to wind some brittle shard

of memory out of the sky
and spool it back upon itself.

Stems burst and ice pours out
in petals. Slowly, over the hours

we count the morning
and think ourselves lucky

as we stand in the curling dawn.
It really did

take this long.

 


Sandy Coomer is a poet, mixed media artist and endurance athlete. Her poems have most recently been published or are forthcoming in Clementine Poetry JournalApeiron Review, and Hypertrophic Literary Magazine, among others. She is the author of two poetry collections: Continuum, a chapbook published by Finishing Line Press, and The Presence of Absence, which won the 2014 Janice Keck Literary Award for Poetry. Visit her website at sandycoomer.com.

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