Foggy mist hovers.
Murky white veil,
nature’s hide-and-seek touch.

Glacier calves, cracks sharply.
Blue tinged icebergs
float aimlessly, shrinking in time.

Numbed cold rouged cheeks.
Breath’s visible trail hangs
in cold crisp air.

I am witness.
I understand now.
Warnings of dire disaster.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse. Today we are to include the word “touch” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photos from our cruise some years back to Antarctica.