St. Paul, mid-January, car to daycare,
typical sidewalk patchwork:
compacted snow, scraped concrete,
shiny ice, a sharp, abbreviated
slip that doesn’t quite end
with a fall. I hate the ice, I say.
What even is the job of ice? asks my son.
In summer I detailed the jobs
of worms, mosquitos, rain, bees,
convincing him the world’s
annoyances have worthwhile roles to play.
Ice insulates the waiting seeds,
protects them through winter’s
damaging cold. Ice cracks open
rocks, lets roots in. Ice turns back
to water, feeds plants and rivers,
animals and birds. Ice reflects
sunlight and radiation to keep, to try
to keep, our planet healthy.
Ice makes us walk slowly. Ice asks us
to consider the ways water, air,
and earth interact. Ice reminds us
fragility is not just about bones.
The Job of Ice
Merie Kirby teaches at the University of North Dakota. She is the author of two chapbooks, The Dog Runs On and The Thumbelina Poems, and has been published in several journals, including Whale Road Review, SWWIM, West Trestle Review, and North Dakota Quarterly, with work forthcoming in The Prose Poem and Scientific American. You can find her online at www.meriekirby.com.