Untitled, January 5, 2025
By Erick Wilund
He stands on a frozen pond
Before a great block of ice
A perfect cube, twice his height
The block is cold
Dark and dense, a container of shadows
The edges are not sharp
But rounded, worn smooth with time
He can’t see through it
But at his quietest moments
He sees within
He sees his past, his life before now
His choices and changes and directions not chosen
He sees someone he recognizes
Someone he used to know, perhaps
Or might once have been
When did their roads diverge?
If he walked around the block of ice
Would he see this someone, looking in from the other side?
Before he can find out
He feels the ice crack below him
And steps away, to where it’s safe
Maybe he’ll be back tomorrow,
if he doesn’t lose his way.
Erick Wilund is a writer, born and raised in New York. He writes in order to process what he is presented with, and to organize what he stores in his mind’s attic. He currently lives in the outer boroughs of New York City, amongst the trees.
