Varieties of ice in spring
Lumpy and thick, packed snow thawed
and frozen. Translucent. Resists
ice pick and shovel.
Edges of snowbanks under sun: clear beads, slick
with their own melting.
Transparent sheet floats,
rigid. Fingertip presses down,
pushes it under.
This one gives a little, springs back. Sloshes
the water beneath, spurts it out.
Bounces, bounces, cracks, gives way.
Broken chunks, half slush,
swim in brown puddles.
Thin skin of an air pocket, lace-edged, glass-brittle.
An early-morning type, gone by midday.
A mere sheen on the sidewalk.
Treacherous. But this, too,
disappears by noon.
Joanne Epp’s poetry has appeared in The New Quarterly, Rhubarb, and Curio Poetry, among others. Her chapbook, Crossings, was released in 2012. She lives, writes, cycles, and plays the organ in Winnipeg. Visit her blog at joanneepp.com.