When the River Froze

Frozen, the river is a moonscape,
not earthly. Not normal.
The ice lies cracked on the water and
starlight glints madly in crevices.
The cold is absolute. It eats perception.

Memory breaks when things
are not as they should be.
When hearts and rivers freeze by night,
when the flow of life becomes debris,
wind sweeps clear.

 Discarded boats linger on the dead waves,
trapped as the inexorable current assaults the shore
then shatters on the death of a dream.
Crystalized hopes drift, disappear.
Only fragments remain:
ice chips, brittle and dark.