Up here, we see ancient boulders below, left behind in the glacial
surge, scoured and sculpted out of thick waves of frost.
From this height, each mammoth, tumbled stone is a pale, hard berry.
Through the ages, green grows, adapts, and the thorn guards its fruited berry.
From above, we glimpse the shifting age to come, the time beyond glacial.
Maiden ferns and violets will shake themselves under birch trees free of frost.
But we angels above clutch our wings, shield our eyes against the glinting frost.
Up here, it is frigid and we whisper in shivered longing for the ripened berry,
desirous of green, earthy things. We conspire to shatter all that is glacial.
We smash the glacial edge; still, a killing frost remains, turns each berry white.