I'm standing still
  on a pointof land
  that forcesthe river to go around it.
I'm feeling the weight
  of the glacierscalving on the far shore
  but not reallycalving,
  perpetuallyimminently calving...threateningly standing still,
  attached tothe main glacier by...what?
Do they need eachother
like capillary action?
like a 5-year-oldgirl holding onto her father
  spinning heraround just off the summer playground bark mulch?
like the last longinghug
  in the Tsawwassenferry terminal
  before hersprint to Berth Five?

Behind me, up the point,at the base of the cliff, in the boulders,
  is the hotspring
  staring acrossthe valley
  carved by THATglacier's ancestors.
And in the hot spring
  where I returnto dip
  are the controlsfor the calving.

The bergs across theway are compelled to look,
  constantly,day and night,
to see if the steamin the spring is increasing.
That's a cue: watchfor it.
The more I glide myarms over the surface, the more steam rises. I smirk.

The bergs across theway are compelled to look,
  constantly,day and night,
to see if the loosesmall rocks above the spring
  lose theirpurchase and fall in from the expanding/contracting heat/cold
  of living nearthe live spring.
I caused the lastrock to spill in
  when I tossedmy towel up there just minutes ago.
Grin. Wet towel, smallprice to pay.

The bergs across theway are compelled to look,
  constantly,day and night,
to see the wisps ofsteam that die quickly
  once each snowflakedies on the surface of the spring.
The larger the flakes,I notice, the more spherical the puff of steam,
  that must countfor something.

Do you want me
  to shovel allthe snow nearby
  into a largepile at the side
  then shoveit in?

Do you want me
  to stand up,leap out, run up the cliffs
  push all theloose small, and big, rocks into the pool?

Do you want me
  to dig a wella mile deep, light a fire down there
  to furtherstoke the thermal furnace
  and watch thespring approach boil
  to create afog to rise, glide down the point, cross the river
  and slide upyour side, encompassing your leading edge,
  and wrap aroundthe crest of you, berg,
just like the man'shand reaches around the back of the woman's neck,
  slides up theback of her head to cup her hair in his palm
  as his fingertipsglide up and down her scalp?

Or is the arctic bluesky, as bright now as it's going to get,
  in charge ofit all.
Silently lording overus all its
pre-eminence
  among the bouldersand stones,
  glacier andbergs,
  spring andpoint and river?

And am I to just standstill,
  on the point,
  quietly,
  not even humming,
just waiting...
waiting and standing...
waiting and...
waiting.

Copyright 2002, StephenBuckley
08.07.02, 930-1015pm