There Sits a chair that's frozen to the ice Its sturdy wooden legs stuck, grasped by cold hands That don't relent. I hadn't even noticed the chair at first. In the middle of the frozen water, there I was Standing, staring Out into the emptiness hovering Over the dark lake. For a while I stood In my safe place on the ice. Giant cloud shadows crawled over mountains And down snow-filled valleys, Bruising the landscape. I then noticed the dark water lapping at the icy edge And roiling and churning darkly beneath my feet Just inches below the ice.
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But Why should I get to sit? Some are much wearier than I And besides, the spot is not mine to take. There are others from the water Who have been treading all their lives. What do I know of that, Standing here, always held aloft? Not much. I could cry rivers But what good would that do? So I will do this instead: Stand beside the chair Ever through the seasons Gripping the arm with solidarity. Stand and listen. Listen.
Then I noticed others in the water Treading and treading and treading Working to stay afloat. Truths flow strong as a winter river under ice. Only then was I aware of the chair. Speak to their power It hadn't always been there, When their owners would be scorned for doing so. It didn't need to be. From the ice, expose That is until the lake turned thick and dark with oil Why the ice is even there in the first place, Pulling down and down. Why some are on top while others are not. (But not on me. I'm safe on the ice.) Break the ice, if need be. The lake needed guarding. I wanted Help make the water clean again. So much And most of all To take the place on the chair Remember When I first noticed it. My place is beside. From it, I would pull those from the water Because for once Who were struggling. It's not about me.