I think, one day, I found it
buried in the ice;
where the rotted fallen trees encircled the lone pool of sunlight
that bent emphatically across the mountaintops
and poured itself into the frozen pond,
waiting till spring to thaw.
There’s something here,
a tick on my shoulder whispered in my ear
and then it bit me there;
The blood dripped down,
boiled the ice on impact.
I can see it still when I close my eyes:
The harsh redness beaming in bold defiance of the winter air
And the allotted warmth of sunlight designated for the particular season.
The fiery creature burrowed itself deep into a place
Where my hands could not reach to scratch
And squealed its deafening echo, resonated unending through my skull
as a broken phonograph record,
skipping over and over