Black Ice

Anthony Hammill

January 2022

Overnight, underground, and beneath the snow

Underneath a soft white dusky light

Where he smiles and no one knows

Where in the morning he’s selecting targets

Who will slip and fall, and who to attack

He pretends he’s invisible

Perhaps to avoid the explosive battle

He has every morning with a bucket

Of freshly coarse salt

Snow doesn’t understand how Ice

Enjoys his mischievous activities

He sympathizes with Ice

Because snow doesn’t know

What it’s like to be hated (sometimes)

But Ice knows

Whether six weeks early or not

He’ll die the same way every Spring

Retreating back into the soil

With a single flower, peeking out.