Antarctica

Icebergs gloss the skies.
Blue and white converge.
The ship moves slowly.
Beyond the waters
penguins search the horizons.
Some wail, looking up at a lowing sky.
Others silently stop, gazing ahead motionless.

The shore is rich in broken slabs of ice,
dully melting before our eyes.
Turning to you on the ship's bow
I ask the only question you fail to answer.

It is 30 degrees in Antarctica.
The clouds are wisps of white waves.
I cling to you.
Suddenly you say No No No.