In sculptures’ gentle melt, we trace, A stark echo of frost’s losing race. Arctic souls, in icy lore, Seek shelter on vanishing shore. Plea of the polar, silent, strong, Where doth the icy pathway belong? Viewers, ponder this fleeting grace, In warmth, our cold kin lose their space. Each drip recalls the globe's blue plight, Under the weary, sun-touched night. In thinning ice, and teardrop dew, A reckoning waits for me and you.