Melt

It's nicer to think of water that once was ice,

And to consider the moment it changed,

From the sun, and time,

Than it is to think of these dead fish on the shoreline

And to consider the moment they changed.

There's an odor in the wind,

Beneath the blue sky,

In late September.

Some words, like melt, 

Do better than putrefaction. 

Melt is like ice cream, popsicles, chocolate. 

Putrefaction is like roadkill, old lettuce, these belly-up fish.

The lake melts in early spring.

These fish melt in early fall. 

The first hard frost will stop their stinking. 

The first hard thaw will bring back a hidden memory of them,

Sunk down in the subconscious,

Mingling with the soil beneath the wet grass,

Suggesting a promise of something living

When winter's blanket rolls back the shroud

That covers the odor of melting death.