It’s this change of pace which is heartbreaking.
When liquid turns to solid.
A natural thickness to our world. Our blood is pancake batter suffocating the valves of the heart, nations upon nations.
But I have visited the country lakes and heard the singing ice.
The tarmac outside is scarcely stroked by cars. The birds have even paused their breakfast calls. I set my hope on a lullaby where its verses are piercing shards and a chorus is a fricative freeze.
A song that can best be heard in the beginning of winter just as lakes are frozen. Where trust is given by the earth to release its clenched fists. Whispers to it’s naval gut persuade the surface and underneath the ice to; crack.
It causes forceful vibrations that sound for miles.
Yet only a few factors, a little kindle to determine the range of a lakes frozen voice. How fast the ice is frozen and how much snow was covering the surface all those months like dust.
All that said; with each breaking tension the heavenly conductor waves his strong hand and knows each stroke of this splitting symphony and beckons the sound waves into the air.
Wash your visceral in the creeping minor, the lament of our world under pressure.
When I think about not being able to turn the closed sign over and I cannot grip my imagination to touch it – I think about that country lake.
by Elliot C Vanderhyde