Where the Cold Engraves its Memory (2025)
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Under the milky light, the ice floe holds its breath.
A ridge of ice, streaked with sastrugi, traces the scar of an ancient lead closed by frost.
It reveals the trapped tide, the pressure of the pack, the bite of the katabatic winds.
Deep blues emerge, basal blues, almost ferrous; white streaks across the pupil like dry snow.
Nothing moves, everything drifts inward.
The surface, hard as glass, keeps the runes of the surf under the crust, the murmur of the floes, the rumbling of a polar tide that has fallen silent.
In places, salt has scratched the skin of the ice; elsewhere, meltwater darkens, a miniature fjord in the low light.
This cryoglyph is no accident: it is the disciplinary writing of the cold.
A sentence formed by compression, fracturing, nocturnal re-welding, repeated each dawn with the same austerity.
The distant polynya will not send its breath today. The wind, coming from the plateaus, passes close to the ground, without raising a grain of dust.
So the eye kneels.
Between two crystals, a fine eternity: time settles there like old snow, gaining density, losing noise.
The scar serves as an oracle. It says that the sea is still there, in negative, and that the memory of the cold can only be written on the wound itself.
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