Old Faces

don’t walk on ice, my mother says, not even
the thick ice, for the faces of old inhabit the water
beneath the surface, and if you must walk
across a frozen pond don’t look down or they’ll
come up to meet you. they’ll press their hands
to the ice and shatter it like glass, you’ll
sink into the depths, feel their cold kiss on your cheek,
and join them in their frozen reality,
free from time but a prisoner of this world,
and when the time comes you’ll burn with it.