Poem: But Also And In Iowa

You looked at somewhere like no one else looks at it. And you did it near the pond.
The one that turns to glass made from rain. Because it isn't ice to you.
And ice to you is also always clear. And it takes colors and holds them in the shape of floors that hold our feet only and just above them.
And you are only and out near what is always far, always far, out beside the space above a tree in Iowa.