The Ice Is Hot When It Thaws

As the ice in my hand gently thaws,

my butterfly’s go and fly better having gone, and yet, I haven’t even begun.

I’ll climb the mountains, I’ll wade in and along with the streams.

I am forever magnified in there waters like a vibrant bug in a glass jar.

But do I think hard? Do I? Do I think?

The answer is yes, for too long. So long that it’s no longer thinking at all.

How I can waste time so easily in haste.

Now, lesser do I wish to think, for i am with beauty and in dream.

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