The mountain of ice tilts forward towards the water.

It sheds its skin like a white snake into the hungry salt-mouth of the ocean

and we watch, quiet-like, the face of raw truth calving and birthing and melting into the blue bay;

unable to say what we think and thinking of what we cannot say.

We see its face—our faces—unmasked, unclouded, blatant in the eyes of the fierce sky. 

It crumbles before us but we cannot speak, we cannot be brave in the naked revelation of the glacier;

its magnitude is unbearable and screams at us in blizzarding, cold silence.

I begin to weep as the world peels back the silent, glacial truth, and we are speechless at its sight;

the entirety of its magnitude unabashed in its being, while we hide even the smallest dark corners of ourselves from the fingers of the sunlight.

You turn, slightly, away.  An unseen piece of us rips away and drifts deeper into the rusting salt of the world, never to be more than drifting ice.