Hoarfrost
Hoarfrost transforms
spindles of trees into
glittered white pipe cleaners
laced with fractal rainbows.
I want to let the crystals
grow on the shaft of a
fly fishing hook. If only
they wouldn’t melt in my
fingers
or the sea, they could lure
the tasty morsels.
The sea has its own crystals.
The salt that seeds on
seaweed.
The sand that crunches
between the teeth, or slides
beneath each step.
The giant uncut jewels
of floating blue icebergs. Yet,
the sea would greedily
steal my crystals of hoarfrost,
lap them up with its salty
tongues.
Melted upon my fingers,
I could touch the pure water
to my lips, rather than lose it
to the vastness. But then
again,
absorbed by the sea,
my crystals could temper
acidification of the ocean
by one minute degree.
For now I will let needles
of hoarfrost multiply on
the trees and cars,
and let it attempt
to penetrate my lungs
with each icy inhale
in short, bundled stints.