Cold Chisel

A Craftsman chisel—
heavy iron bar
ending in wedge shape—
in my hand I was
stronger than Lee, the handyman
who, muscles bulging, could not open up
the freezer door clamped shut
by years of melt and freeze that bound
the rubber gasket to the metal frame.

But will of ice melted before the force
of that cold chisel as easily as night
gives way to dawn. Inside, the sculpted ice,
its corbeled stalagmite and frozen stalactites,
beneath the iron elongation in my hand
cracked into diamond shards and fell
obediently into the waiting pail and when
the melted trophy turned to liquid shine
I poured the water on a newly planted fig.