(Glade, World, Master, Boy, Hero)
Text and art copyright 2011 by Ron Sanders
There is a glacier.
Its blue tongue’s tip just tastes a frozen gorge.
There is a gorge, its walls shattered by cold; a once-green thing that, in dying, birthed a
thousand aching fissures. It works its jagged way downhill, round ragged rifts and drifts until it
comes upon a little frosted wood.
There is a wood, an island locked in ice.
Into this wood the gorge descends. It wanders and it wends; it brakes and all but ends
outside a clearing wet with sun. And there, forking, its bent and broken arms embrace a strange,
There is a glade.