She grips the ice by its fingers,
her skin slipping on its skin
until she learns to use her nails
to catch hold. She can see
her hands through the ice
but blurred as if moving, a screen
from a movie, scene slowed down
so shades drag into watercolors.
When she kisses the ice, her tongue
ripples with its surface. To lick
means knowing the rhythm
of the air when the water froze,
that instant. Both open to a time
one phase of matter shifted
to another. And what are you?
she asks herself, counting digits
until the heat of her fingertips
makes water return again.