Winter's pen, writing only ".". Little stabs might, in perpetual winter, have an effect in erosion, but the season's ellipsis . . . . . still means nothing. The poem, written in water, is soon shouted down by Spring's song - golden trumpets and blue bells.
The wonders of icicles still capture me, the caught image of an action never fully completed. "Those things can be dangerous" you said; I pay no heed, for they are beauty.
Disintegrating now, they shimmer. In every drip, there is a story. Each one is told to the earth, the flowers, the souls. They are beauty.
Actions now completed, and I pay no heed with light step, and colorful eyes, I watch their stories unfold.
You kiss me beneath them. We pay no heed. In falling they see secrets. Now, Beauty watches beauty.
Outside my front door There is a cage of ice Dripping in a bush. It's like a natural prison cell. Imprisonment for an unassuming bird Captured for eating a worm Unsuspecting of the germ it carried. She's been sanctioned to this icy prison Because she is a danger to the other birds of her kind. She is perched on the icicle melting Inside her claws. She is freezing. But, the sun it comes To destroy her prison Day by day. Until it melts, and she flies away.
excited