When the strong ice melts
the graceful river flows
the turquoise pools lie in the sun
melting, flying up to the sky
where the clouds like fluffs of cotton
pour out their melodies
intertwined with the crash of drums
and streaks of gold.

But there is a monster
a lurid, roaring presence
the scraping of metal
and the groaning of trees’ roots
the screech of a hawk
the bark of a fox
they flee

The strong ice browned
the graceful river chopping
filled with streaks of black, sticky oil
tin cans bobbing in the current
the once cotton clouds now gray
the rain turned bad and rotten
the crashes of drums no longer music
the fish choke
while the birds cease to fly

The monsters have gone
but will leave a sorry scar
taking much effort and time
to fully heal again.

-Sarah Booker, 2013

When the strong ice melts

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