Lily Pond on New Year's Day

At first winter,

the geese congregate,

gabbling as they do,

churning grey tea to chop,

shatter-glass ice

fashioned at the edges.

From a distance,

you frame it,

focus,

while on the inside,

a glacier slopes the lungs,

this cold syrup

knowing no April,

until it’s time to press.

And exhale,

jungle clouds

fogging the vision,

reading for an instant

like an open door

to a hothouse,              

a wall of humidity.

But no.

It's a shutter-click.

A finite blast

of false positive,

brushing you with

a counterfeit warmth.