The Old Man Who Walked through the Field
The north field was frozen, just a broad stretch of white, it grew thicker with every flake.
The old man kept walking, his heavy boots crunching down through the ice with a shatter.
But still he trudged on, his stiff bones unyielding, while he dreamed of spring thaws and snow’s melt.
Of warm days of sun like that long ago May when the river swelled full from the melt.
Her small hand in his, they’d sat by the banks a stray storm brought the season’s last flake.
In the shade of a tree they took shelter, she whispered, the words that would make his heart shatter:
“I won’t marry you. I must marry another.” Her voice drowned by the river’s ice shatter.
The ice sheets all cleaved and released from the shore to be freed by the sun and to melt,
To rejoin the water, their long travels over, hard ice that began as small flake.
His own journey over the old man sat down in the shade of the tree by the river. He’d not make it to spring to see the last flake so he returned where his heart it did shatter. They would find him still there when the water flowed down, released from his cage by the melt. His heart was not ice, it remembered its youth and it longed for lost spring’s loving warmth.
This is my contribution to the yeah write December poetry slam! This is a tritina. I was given the words flake, shatter, and melt.
(Edit: Turns out this is not a tritina so much as a monster/tritina hybrid that came off the rails there in that last "line." While the last line of a tritina can be composed of more than one sentence, it still should be a "line." Mine is more of a microstory pretending to be a line tacked on to the body of a tritina. That is still pretty rad but it would be intellectually dishonest to call it a proper tritna after the chaos of all that. Thank you for reading! JP)