To Eat Ice

A tree-frog found its home in our dog’s fur. Not
a log-cabin, geodesic dome or even

an A-frame. No, the architecture
of convenience was at work, and our

dog snored while the frog dug deeper
into Sakari’s dense double coat. I mulled

over hiding places, igloos built
from snow, summer huts,

support beams of birch poles. How
fast we love a thing—fasten it to our souls,

peel the birch to curl into small canoes;
eat the ice of our homes and strike forbidden fires;

flames fanning silhouettes on our hard
packed snow. When we got so

cold we thought ourselves hardwood, we mad-
dashed inside to the stove’s fire, where

we counted lives inside each spark that sent
its star across the dark.

by Dianna Mackinnon Henning

Editor’s Note: This poem’s meandering narrative leads the reader to believe it will end up in one place, but then it travels to another, and one is left richer for the journey.