The Ice Across the Trail
John Oliver Hodges

Up the on the cliff where the trail curves women
Will be seen weeping as they gaze
Upon the grandeur of distant fall and the nuance
Of river, its rush in various stages of
Undress, ice chunks drifting, or crashing down from
                The peaks above, half-melted pieces melting
Falling into the river as the women watch
                Weeping weeping weeping forgive
The weariness of this, what I mean is:

                              My wife of the weeping
                              My wife who pointed out to me
                              The curve where women will
                              Be seen weeping wobbled
                              On the ice across the trail
                              Afraid. I said, “Take my
                              Hand,” but she would not
                              Take it. “I’m afraid,” she said
                              And slipped because she did
                              Not take it.

As the women who are weeping do not
                              Ever, ever, ever take the hands of
Those assholes who would have them believe that
                              Ice is not a thing to be
                              Afraid of.

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