The block of ice
sits a bit defiantly
on the cold wooden table
in this cold room
awaiting the soul-giving
caress of my chisel.
It is airless, clear as crystal
specially cast for ice sculpture.
None of the flaws we used to have
that could break your heart as easily
as a wing or a finger.
From blocks like this
I have released
delicate hollow swans
golden with champagne.
Such ice has graced palaces
and hotel ballrooms
and seaboard cruise ships
and other noble fantasies.
Such ice I have carved into
elves and fairies and princesses
crystal coaches thrones
flying geese and prides of lions
heraldry beauty mythology
and corporate logos.
Such temporary art is
for sale for a price
so many dollars for
a flight of ice
I raise my chisel
my magic wand
for the first cut
that will carve away the excess
and leave the angel
already alive in the ice
before I start.
Every beginning is a compromise:
artistic vision is the start
melting is the end
and between
missed cuts mean broken wings
but this ice
won’t break your heart.
I shall begin soon;
maybe this chisel needs
a little stropping
on the leather of my boot . . . .
Is there room for a wing here?
