I think about the ache
that cracking predicates itself upon.

How all-my-young-life
I wished for the snapping/satisfaction
of sinewed bone releasing pressure into atmosphere at will.

As if nursing-up some
small/combust/filled/living
till it's ripe with honeycomb and milk
only to set it loose in/of the wild-wood at night.

It's not that way though is it?

It's fissures in the ice
which rise from warmth.

A low/persistent/river
flowing steady through the reeds
till each they dry
and crackle-in-the-current.