Five miles high, the captain says: "Greenland ahead."
We watch in wonder as it drifts slowly into view.
Ice floes fleck on black water. Inlets narrow and harden
Into frozen folds against dark escarpments.
Glaciers snake into snow, and more snow, shadowless in intensity.
Past the Pole, the interior begins to yield, ice fields melt,
Peaks blacken and beckon—and our flight resumes.
What of our own polar journeys, cold chasms of our creating?
We know that ice relents and rivers run. A world awaits
The warmth of a touch, a word, a smile.
