Saturday's Poem: Ice

Ice by Albert Garcia

In this California valley, ice on a puddle

is a novelty for children

who stand awkward in their jackets

waiting for the school bus.

They lift off thin slabs

to hold up in the early light

like pieces of stained glass.

They run around,

throw them at each other,

lick them, laughing as their pink tongues stick

to the cold, their breath fogging

the morning gray.

Between the Sierras

in the distance and a faint film

of clouds, the sun rises

red like the gills of a salmon.

From your porch, watching the kids,

you love this morning more

than any you remember. You hear

the bus rumbling down the road

like the future, hear the squealing

voices, feel your own blood warm

in your body as the kids sing

like winter herons, Ice, ice, ice.