Tags: icicles

kissing a moose

Icicle(s)

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.
Catcher in the Rye

Icy Infatuation

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.
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three words.
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Icicles

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.
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