A thumbprint's broken whorls,
pack ice
shunting floe onto floe,
all tilted slabs grinding
piled up ...
Frost heaves dug soil,
scoring a furrow
I uproot molars of ice.
Then the thawing mess sticks,
when you push segments of garlic under,
on the shortest day ...
It's pretty damned cold
& my fingers
ache,
washing a tool's wooden handle clean ...
& the paste of soil is again silt,
in solution.