You gave me your recipe for snow;
I gave you my recipe for rain.
You first, I said. Your coldness
starts my tears;
a matter of temperature.
Give me your recipe for ice;
I’ll trade my recipe for fog.
You’ll need to be more coastal;
ocean breathes toward sky,
tides and waves, coming, going.
The moon—does it pull hard ice?
Big ice? Small ice? Crystals?
Is liquid its only slave?
Your iceberg –mostly under water.
What happens there?
I’d rather have your recipe for snow.