Icewalking

Icewalking

 

    In the ides of March,
    I went along into that wintry wandering lost,
    But found a sort of new way—
    Something I cannot so much tell you;
    It’s not something in the telling
    As it is always in the feeling.

 

    Nothing that I could stop,
    Nothing that I wanted to stop,
    Nothing that seemed stoppable.

 

    The movement, the want to move,
    The putting down of the foot—
    That feeling, I could not escape it.

 

    It was there with me:
    It guided me, and from it,
    I took to the naked floor,
    From naked soles slipping.

 

    I am just lulling, lulling in this word—
    And I’ve never had this word before:
    It thundering by leopard paws,
    These fired persephones.