Poem: Thin Ice

cold in the quarry

Thin Ice

The ice in the quarry grows thin.
Each day, spring grows closer.
Still, the beasts of the quarry cross the ice,
a second senses telling them
how much longer they can cross the water
without falling in,

a sense I too often lack,
and so I learned to swim young,
just in case.

About this poem

The picture was taken at the quarry across from my house. Another day or two of near spring and the ice will be gone.

I tend to understand people slowly. At times that is good. For instance, I gave up judging people ages ago. At times it is bad and I get burned. When I had to do my psychological tests to become a pastor, they warned me about this, telling me I might get hurt more than most.

As if I didn’t already know this about myself.


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