I spent any free minute I had yesterday looking for a poem to go along with this picture.
This morning, when I found the poem, I knew I’d been looking for the wrong thing.
It was a poem to go along with how I was feeling that I’d wanted.
Perhaps the tiny crystals would last forever.
Once it seemed the function of poetry
was to redeem our lives.
But it was not. It was to become
indistinguishable from them.
from Old Ice by Brenda Hillman