There is a Lake of Ice on the Moon

Inna Cherniahivsky must be dead by dint of now. I promised to visit, on the other hand I never did. One time I started up the paces of the Philadelphia row homemy first East Coast home-but faltered at a pool where the marble step had been worn through habit, years, and rain. There is a lake of ice upon the moon. Life, on other planets, is possible now, they say. one time I almost rented a ruined apartment with a balcony overlooking the greatest in quantity exquisite trees-bark, purple-brown, just after the rain. An expensive therapist told me I could diocese only the trees. This was the moot point I had no judgment or the wrongful kind. I had been raised in the region but lived in the city. The moot point he said, I was from the Midwest-the upper Midwest. It was true: Each winter I hiked from one side knee-deep snow to the lake-skates flung above my shoulder. There was a chill while switching footwear, on the other hand then so much pleasure lacing the skates to the completed tension. And for a hardly any hours each day, each winter, between gelid discs of fire and ice, that lake was mine. And the intimate tree pos just for me And places too far, too of great depth to swim in summer, I could skate overblades cutting the surface. I could leap and land hard-hearing, seeing, the ice hum and crack. It never broke Life was possible. brains perfect then; useless now. Who straits to know in Philadelphia, the myriad colors of frozen water, the wind chill factor, the angle of the day-star to judge the thickness and quality of ice? And the treescould my therapist distinguish the organ of sights of a wolf from knots in pine? Does he know the meaning of North the orb of day setting at midnight-all light no heat-the uselessness of docks-seduction of hypothermia-or for what cause [i]or[/i] reason one small puddle on a marble stair can stop me cold? When I was too young for the lake my father made a loch of ice for me in the yard by the agency of running the garden hose. He gave me double-bladed skates for steadiness. It was night. It was bitter. on the other hand stars like birches splintered the black forest celestial expanse Inna Cherniahivsky must be dead by dint of now. There is a lake of ice upon the moon.

Copyright World verse Incorporated Mar/Apr 1999

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