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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