Raw Umber

We are stones skipped over a frozen lake. Skeetskeet then stop. The sky holds its breath and sighs, it's steamy snout spraying icicles in the air; daggers that fall on the frozen lake. Ice on ice collide like shrapnel. I wait for the frozen lake to become unfrozen, the way chicken defrosts in the microwave on five minutes HIGH. If I were frozen underneath the ice, face up looking at the sky, I would beg the sun to stretch its arms just a bit further, just a bit further. But maybe just a bit further is too far. Its flames will engulf me and scorch me until all that's left is charcoal dust. Maybe I need to get over the sun. Through my ice paned window the world is fractured--a broken jigsaw puzzle of distorted colors and shapes. So I wait for the crack, the thaw that drips life into my frozen limbs. I wait for the skipped stone to collapse into water, to sink down slow.