By: Art Trustin Burros
January 12, 2005

The pass is open for you, she said
The pass is always open, I said
Yes, but the pass is open going north for you, she answered
The pass is always open, I repeated
The pass is open north for you, she emphasized again

Winter is cold here in January;
I walk beside the ponds near by and measure the cold
I watch each day as the ice grows closer to the center
In the center of the ice field is a dark expanse of water
Water has no where to go trapped inside ice,
It has no motion; therefore, it does not ripple
I wonder when the ice will cover the water
I think about the creatures below

Frogs and turtles have burrowed deep into the mud
Their winter clocks have slowed
Loneliness comes in the dark and perverts sanity
The reptiles turn in their graves
The nearly frozen stew is motionless
To creatures that never see
The desire for spring
Eluded by the winter season’s pandering to hibernation,
Protection,
Escape

Fish float in semi-lighted depths with glinting scales
Black orbs peer into shafts of light coming through the ice
Fins are still and swim bladders are set to pause,
No motion,
No stimulation,
A season of unconscionable surrealism
Someplace between ascension and the depths below
Gills are waiting for the fresh air of a new season,
A season bubbling with new life

I watch for the ice to melt
I wait for the time when I can measure the warmth
When the ice recedes and the motionless hole
Is once again planted with life