A thin thread lies just out of reach.
I noticed it yesterday when the winds came
over the sea from across the iced landscape.

Dangling with purpose, its motion set
to keep balance with the vibration.

I look out from this peak above the tree-line
further up the slope passing through low-level clouds

and into a charged atmosphere, a place forgetting about sea-level
looking further beyond here where the spiritual and mystical

are common-place and work constantly, surrounding your
physical being, breaking you piece by piece

until left as a shred of your previous self.

cold. cold descends from crystal blue
fading from the orange horizon. cold bones.

I look over the shreds and watch them
freeze and become ice, encased, I can

no longer use them. Now I see through
the pieces I was made of and wonder

what do they see. Crouching on the ice and rock
I look through one toward other peaks

with the moon beginning to rise and briefly
I am no longer here, in this plane.

The snow gods and angels rise from the
crevasses and deep blue twists and fades

intermingles with fine mist unseen.

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William Ricci
William Ricci is the poetry editor for The Edge magazine and founding editor of Stone Path Review. He writes experimental poems and essays about nature and awareness with publishing credits that include: A View from the Loft, The Edge, Whistling Shade, Paper Darts, Primalzine, Whispering Angel, and Seven Circle Press.


  1. As I looked at the design of the poem today I noticed how you incorporated dangling by a thread into your piece. Fine poem. It deserves many readings.

  2. Thank you Kristin, I appreciate the feedback and your kind words. To be honest, that was not intentional, it just happened to be written that way, channeled from somewhere else.


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