I'm wrung out, used up
Like the ice in March—gray, lusterless
Crusted at the edge of roads and ditches,
Too tired to melt.
Faded and transformed
An ugly shell…
But not on the inside—not forever.

When the ice begins to melt
It shines again, transformed
Runs rivulets away from the place
Where it’s been stuck, stationary,
Getting stepped on, shattered
As cars and people passed by,
It sparkles anew, has power,
Pulling great slabs of frozen rivers apart
Until they’re flowing again.
Maybe I can be like that too.