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The first flake of winter lights, then melts, leaving a wet iridescent pearl on the fabric of my cashmere sweater; its only contaminant a mote of dust. But, before its melt, the sharp crystal's geometric exactness refracts the sun's flat ray into a spectral sparkle. It is so with the glacier in the Nahanni named by the first missionary to see it "Our Lady of the Snows". Nearly vertical off the saddle back's cornice, the wind-sculpted blue ice and eroded granite imply the holy spectacle. Mediterranean cowl binds the brow above her veiled orbs, sightless in their icy sockets; they peer over the Northern vale while from beneath her stony robe's folds her toes grip Earth's sphere; her outstretched hands invite and gather. Snow's buoyant swirl softens all excepting her igneous form. It is the same with the annual expansion and contraction of the Northern Ice Cap. Beneath the blue-green boreal light it stops time with its freeze and melt; and keeps time. It is so with an Ice Age. The fluid frost traces its random geometry while the polar world flows down to the sea's briny plain. |
