Evanescent - Feb 4 2026

 

Evanescent

Feb 4 2026

In the ice hotel

artists have carved 

aspens and poplars into the walls,

sculpted free-standing trees

beneath the high arched ceiling

and glazed chandelier.

An enchanted forest

in bas relief,

at least for now.

An act of creation they know from the start

can’t last.

It’s like birthing a child

you know you’ll outlive,

but still can’t resist 

your natural urge.

Because we are makers.

Because we create

just for the sake of it.

And because beauty is all the more beautiful

knowing how ephemeral it is.

Like a fragile waif

with transparent skin

who breaks your heart,

beauty passes;

ageing as you watch

in real time.

Ice, of which there is less and less these days,

and trees

on a heating planet

susceptible to fire.

A work of art

where the medium, and what it contains

say much the same;

that time is short,

and that our birthright 

is being squandered

by short-sighted greed.

They could have worked in stone,

carving marble

casting bronze.

Could have made grave markers

or played around in abstract art,

sculpted heroic men 

on rearing horses

on granite plinths.

But they chose ice;

a vehicle that’s brittle

unforgiving

and even more short-lived

than we are.

Because even though we know 

we’re not here for long

and that our works not much longer,

we make meaning

in whatever time we have.

If nothing else

to make sense of ourselves.

I imagine the clients of the ice hotel

will marvel as they walk,

echoing down the hall

and gazing overhead.

Their misty breath

will condense on the cold hard surface,

softening it

with a dull rime of frost. 

Will they appreciate this work of art?

Will they know how privileged they are

to be first and last

to take it in?

Their presence

the beginning of the end

of its brittle beauty.

You wonder why they do it, pouring heart and soul into a work of art that will last at most 3 months. 

But then why do I write poems that will never be read?  Because the pleasure is in the process, not the result. 

And because even for a nihilist like me — who doesn’t believe life has any meaning in this cold indifferent universe beyond the first accidental cell and its primordial legacy of the basic biological drive to survive and reproduce — I’m still free to create meaning; to take advantage of this short and monumentally improbable gift of consciousness. 

Here’s the story that inspired this. If you’re unable to open the link, I’ve excerpted some photos. All credit for them goes to the artists, Dawn Detarando and Brian McArthur.