I.
Pale salmon starfish nipped
by an unexpected late frost,
delicate radiant faces
static for eternity.

Loosening their slender fists,
the blossoms release their chilling
grasp.
The reeds,
petrified,
do not sway with the wind.

Frozen
French vanilla creamer
diffuses
under the clouds.

II.
First time
Father John splashed holy water
into your aisle,
into your face,
when you put on your ice skates
age five,
falling immediately.
When you pushed your grandfather’s
lawnmower back
onto the lawn,
verdant perfumes wafting
from the old blades,
when you poked your
newborn cousin
sleeping, bundled
to the realm of tender arms.
When you sat stony-faced,
agitated
at a loved one’s funeral
wondering about his spirit
and if it could permeate the coffin.

III.
A young couple
ice skate
carving, pitting the azure ice.
Synchronized
soft beams still radiate
off their bodies.
They strap on their ice skates,
wobble a little
then straighten out,
skate
wreathed by
fallen blossoms resting in the silhouettes
of cherry trees.