©2017 Rolland G. Smith
Within the blue of glacier’s eyes
Are chronicles of climate’s storm.
So too, the tears of nature’s cries
That mark the passage of the norm.
As we descend, or climb to view
We learn the eyes may close some day.
Perhaps the science of the few
Will be the sound of man’s mayday.
There’s grace within the water lock
As waves are held in pantomime.
It’s nature’s art, and melting frock
To say we’re running out of time.
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