Ice

I feel a rush
iconoclastic
and out of place
in this winter-soft paradise.
The air, it balloons with whispers
moist, they sparkle
and drip into my very fiber
wet and expectedly quiet.
The sun pushes rays
across purified snow
like red sleds gliding
producing a line of power strokes,
orange hot yet misleading
when one is surrounded by ice.
I'm not sure whether to feel
ambivalent or blessed.

Copyright 2011 JO Janoski