( Under the Ice, Antarctic Land Comes into Focus ) Under the ice, the arctic garden floats with abandon. I’ve found it there, pierced its sway with my beams that walk on water without so much as wonder. Is there something that I'm trying to know with a mind that remains a step behind, fluttering with discovery, heedless to counsel? The Arctic Tern with its summer girth, the Ice Worm shirking the sun, and Little Blue fairy wings hunched in a flightless parade, know that Love's in trouble as the ambitious omen weeps its red beams through the dwindling ice, probing for a solitary minute more of salvation. Is there something they're trying to say to me with their toddling passage? Am I alive enough to sense the reckoning? The beams tell me no. My love blanches at its reckless path. My greed salutes the sky with a single digit, a predatory wave growing warmer, growing under itself, sending in a brigade of warm water to blot the day. Might the beams penetrate
(The Weaver's Song)