Inscribed in ice, the fountain’s rest,
Scattered chunks of frost suggest
Whence they came, none could attest.
Each passerby, to ice they’re drawn,
Lingers more than just upon
A mere path trodden once at dawn.
Paths crossed just once, now sought again,
Downhill paths, in memory’s ken,
It’s the past self’s gift, from when.
Branches thrown into the watery part,
—Thump—
No resonance in heart,
A weight light, not enough to chart.
Does this road lead to journey’s end?
Yet upon it, I’ve already wend.
‘Tis but ice, so thin, so slight,
Where life
hangs but by a thread, mid-flight.