When the polar bears come inland, 
the sea ice thinned to insufficient 
for their thick, white weight, we close
our schools and lock our children in
to keep them, for now, from harm. 
Outside, the bears wander, dozens
as confused as our sons and daughters. 
Winter, it seems, no longer lives here,
but no one has taught us where to go.

The sea, undressed, is not ashamed.
Our children churn their chilly rooms,
stir our houses until each one softens.
Each morning we wait for winter 
to recover. The bears’ breath clouds
our streets. Their pacing splashes mud 
across their heavy thighs. Nothing lives 
north of our village; we must not tell
our children that all of us are seals.

When rain continues, we marvel
how prophecy has deceived us. 
This end is being preceded by
a succession of modest winters—
last year’s, the year before, now this.
Yes, summer will vanish, but into 
this constant, twilit season conceived 
by gods we have never understood
until, surely, the long-promised wars 
that bear them witness will begin.