Penguin
Macho: For Silvia
For two months in the black Antarctic night,
the Emperor stands still above the egg
that is his sole concern; his movements slight,
he warms it in the pouch above his leg
against the dark and metal-splitting chill
of polar winter; there he holds, erect,
unheeding hunger, as the ice-shelf's shrill
cold-razored winds slash him without effect.
One wonders if, throughout his frigid stand,
he dreams of northward, light-danced seas his mate
drives through to feed and flourish far from land.
No matter—here he keeps his watch in state.
The Southern Cross drifts round the ice's rim;
there are yet weeks until its stars grow dim.
Copyright © 2002 Nelson Miller
