Crumbled they fall

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Shattered cubes of aspiration

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Left to rest on a Texan highway

Tidy piles of ice await the days sun

Dreams facing evaporation

Ask you hear the distant voice demanding attention

“Refrigerate as much slush as possible

Precious still, is the formed water”

The sky is one big clock

A ticking enemy that threatens tomorrow

Clouds the shape of hands

Move to the direction of the wind

In pathetic shape and with the urgency of a desperate man

You scramble for safety, the heat of your closed hands a threat

With further direction from an internal voice

You deposit, what remains of your dreams

Into a tomb of cold, an opaque envelope of chill

Watching nervously, as the damage is revealed

With possibility intact, and adventure possible

You turn the temperature dial down low

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As low, as it will go