It was said that the ice formed crystalline pathways underground,
Where no horizon rolls by or finds the subtle arched sky of faded root.
Midnight is not there, and remembering the way is how it's found,
Dream easy, airy tides of droplet stir, inscribed of wings, of wild fruit.
It's all so real, but not as it seems, not as a book of papaya bound.
How was it said that deep below the outer shell was bitter cold?
An image described but where was the strange hollow ground?
Once upon a time it was easy to know, but now how was it told?
And from where from all the world wishes fell, granted back around?
Like some magic has kept its secret, hiding it in clouds and bended fold.
TBC
©Iggy 1998
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