Ice Flowers


exhaled in the night

out of the humid dream,

engraved on the white

pane in the alien morning,


writhe where they fall, thrust

tendrils into blackness

toward vision only just

recovered, tenuous;


then shudder and dissolve,

leaving a hum of nerve Ė

the mindís unsought creation,

the heartís strange exaltation.

 Jan Schreiber