Before the Metamorphosis
A crossfire of cracks runs
through the lake ice,
as the sun’s warmth breaks through
the white haze of late morning
suspended above the ice’s singing nerve-lines,
the weeks before the metamorphosis –
when the roofs of vast halls
will dissolve
into flickering light for fish,
and canoes & rowboats dip their bellies
high above –
but for now I glide, long-fotted on skis,
with the spikes around my neck
and the entire floor of the sky-hall at my disposal;
the horizons drawn back
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-04-07 at 10:37
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