Flotsams drift by in a frozen sea;
they float by like Sunken Ships -
scarce avoiding iceberg tips that guide frigates
to home-bound glory past Hades' gates.
Dead fish follow the flow, yet there lacks
a flow in this lavish lattice lake. So lost
they are in this boisterous body - Fresh
and Frozen; whence winter waters spell cruel
cold swims up clear cascades -
if they freeze
not.
And yet I sit here,
where skies stay clear
and children hardly shed a troubled tear.
Paying no attention to that distant boat;
or the snuffing snow; or that winter coat.
I sip again, at my Cold,
plain, vanilla float.
