Cold Comfort

Think about all the fishes
in the sea, small comfort.
It is not a question of plenty,
it is a complaint of distance,

of cold and voluminous sinks
and dark, uncharted waters
recirculating between currents.
The way the ice forms, floe

upon floe, piling, the pressure,
loud crack of wooden plank,
the way a sailing ship appears
tiny, inconsequential, a shadow

from the vantage of a bird
soaring high in arctic light.
Think about the bird, how
I would fly away to you.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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