And I'm obviously going to have to read in chronological order
having started back that far.
I want to read a poem called The Iceberg, which is some years
later, it is not it's air.
But our own or that freezes us.
Hardest of all to believe that so fearsome a destroyer can
be dead with those lights moving in it with the sea
all around it charged with its influence.
It seems that only now, we realize
the depth of the waters, the abyss over which we
float among such clouds.
And still not understanding the coldness
of most elegance even with so vast and heartless splendor
before us stare.
Caught in the magnetism of great silence thinking,
this is the terror that cannot be charted.
This is only a little of it.
And recall how many Mariners watching the sunset
have seen these peaks on the horizon
and made sail through the darkness for islands.
That no map had promised.
Floating blessed in the Westies.
These must dissolve before they can again grow apple trees.