by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I keep looking
for the breathing holes
beneath this thick sea ice,
a place where
I can propel
up towards the light,
grasping for a breath of air
that smells like earth
and soil and green things.
I keep looking
for that rare space
because I cannot hold
my breath much longer.
There. Over there
I see some light
through honey-colored ice.
