Pingo

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Pingo

 

Look with me

across this ice patterned ground

past the frost boils, the polygons, and scoured shield rock.

Relax.

Let the wind lift this top covering, this skin of sphagnum and sedge.

It scatters easily

among the waving cottongrass, beneath ptarmigan and hare.

Let the midnight sun slide 

on its slanty ridge roll 

and gild your conical slopes, volcanic,

like the mountains. We wait, 

cloaked in rose and awe,

for your undoing.

 

This is the scary part.

Yes, I know you are scared. 

But the freedom is in the melting,

and in the flow

of possibility, 

of disassembly.

Look to the lupine, the snowy owl, the string bog.

They will tell you of moonlight, solifluction, and birch.

They will tell you to trust

that nature does not, in fact, 

abhor the vacuum, but

adores it. It delights in rushing

to fill it, 

perfectly.

 

Now is your time 

to open.

That ice core, that frozen magma 

shape

has kept you out of reach 

for long enough.

Change the light

in your own way.

You belong here,

whatever your form.

4 thoughts on “Pingo

  1. I’ve heard it said that the definition of a miracle is a change in perspective. If so, Pingo is a truly powerful miracle. Thank you Tricia!

    Like

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