My ice floe gets wobbly as it sinks,

And water licks up the edges,

Soaking my feet with cold.

 

It’s hard to know how much time I’ve got,

Bobbing on this thing,

But once my feet start soaking, 

I leap and land on another floe,

Hoping it will hold,

Til the salt water eats its edges down,

Forcing me to jump again.

 

Does anyone else leave a trail behind them,

Something straight and clear,

A path that others can follow,

A tribute to their passing?

 

Because behind me are,

Just a few chunks of ice,

Bobbing for a minute,

Nothing to see,

In the cold gray of open water,

Before they sink and disappear.

​

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