1.
We carry a river of ice within us.
With its ***** scuffed ripples,
like a starving child's ribs,
it ascends the mountain *****,
strewing in its wake a palette
of naked rocks and clear-cut tundra.
Orange-stained cairns point to our shame.

2.
Once you could see the glacier
behind the rough-hewn pulpit
of the tiny Anglican Church
on the South Island
of New Zealand.
Angelic white, full and overflowing,
it swept into the front pew
like the descent of the Holy Ghost.
Now you glimpse only a dull tableau
behind the big picture window.
Aging panes of glass point to our shame.

3.
We swam against the tide
of La Mer de Glace near
Chamonix, France, urging
the glacier to not turn back
from our carbon fin-print,
urging the train we rode in on
to let us hike our way back.
All was silent except for
the constant drip, drip, drip
of la Mer's tears. We wept, too,
but to no purpose.
Centuries of history pointed to our shame.