What marvelous air,
might be captured there,
within each crystallized tomb of time,
the breath of a woolly mammoth,
the scent of an ancient flower budding,
or the musk of early man tainted with
the woodsmoke of a prehistoric fire
rising from the wild game
of a ravished tribe
all frozen into molecules
that are now released with the melting,
sloughing off of their prison.
It is almost like the crocuses
that sleep beneath the snow,
in my tiny corner of the world
until the sun warms, and erodes
their frosted blankets,
and they once again emerge
as in all the years before
to reign supreme.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis