writing
A rarity of water
is it's ability to float.
Snowflake to glacier.
In defy, of universe,
where most everything
frozen is more dense
and will sink.
The wind is called upon
by contents of salt.
In evaporating spirits,
of oceans and seas.
Sun and moon each play
their part. In soothing life,
few exceptions are fast.
The toll of growth takes time.
There are places in the ocean,
where salinity collides,
to form a tornado, colder than ice.
Everything in it's path dies.
Brinicle of death it's called.
Winter is like that
for most of wildlife
in it's first year and last.
Often not the weak
who die, but those
who have yet to
recover heroic effort
before the snap.
The hand of it, this chill,
that shapes a world
so callous to young and old,
that must and will relent
to the cadence of season.
As old as the sun,
older than the moon.
We, most of us, wait in hiding.
Revolving on this globe,
a chorus of earthworms,
as it spins day by day.
Awaiting that time again
that life awakens
everywhere, kindly, for the
brief moons of Spring.