Crystal View

I stand upon a glass-topped lake

obscured by grayscale fog

as February's sun awakes

to usher in the dawn.

A fissure snaps my crystal view-

streaks white across the ink-

then branches outward, lines askew,

unsound; I'm on the brink.

Green Mountains' muffled sighs seep in

and penetrate my shroud

as feeble rays dilute the dinge

to warm up snowy grounds.

A fissure snaps my crystal view-

streaks white across the ink-

then branches outward, lines askew,

unsound; I'm on the brink.

Suspended fleetingly in space

between the void and home,

I must decide to sink or face

these flaws to reach the stones.

I fondly bid the cracks adieu,

retreating from the brink,

as icy water froths and spews

between the deadly chinks.

Adieu, foul brink...

and deadly chinks.