No one needs an ice scraper in summer.
Although it is blue, blue the color of water
made brilliant by chlorine and July sunshine.
Blue as a larkspur at 10,000 feet. Blue as the day we met.
Ice scraper in the back of my car, when they made it of blue
I don’t imagine they intended to spark the memory
of monkshood and gentian and the sky above tree line.
I imagine they thought any color would do.
Blue in the ice scraper, I have never noticed you.
I have noticed your bristle, your dark sharp teeth.
I consider you only for use. It must take a bit of blue
inside before we can find it mirrored everywhere.
It is not winter. Ice scraper, I thought
I had no need of you, but there is ice inside,
frozen places I am unable to get to,
and I am not seeing clearly. All I see is blue.