The ice floe gets wobbly as it sinks,

And water licks up the edges,

Soaking my feet with cold.

 

I leap and land on another ice floe,

Til water eats its edges down,

Forcing me to jump again.

 

The plain is cracking,

White is getting green

Solid turns to slush.

 

Does anyone else leave behind,

A path for others to follow,

A tribute to their passing?

​

Because I’ve left,

Just a few chunks of ice,

Bobbing in open water,

Before they sink and disappear.

​

But others stayed standing,

Living into different spirits,

Patience and perserverance,

Not my anxious ones.

We each choose our own path,

                                  Or it chooses us.

​

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