An icicle hangs off the front porch;
glimmering thing of beauty,
dripping wet, drop by drop
as if to burst into a stream
against the morning sun
or fall and shatter
on the ice cold ground-
both thoughts draw me to it.
I’m tempted to press these lips against
and have myself a drink,
but hands come first,
to avoid a fatal kiss.
I feel the surface melt with touch,
cool water runs
under these soaked sleeves,
down an elevated arm,
My eyes open wide
and I gasp for winter
as the water hits my chest.
I’m excited for what’s next.Last edited on Wed Nov 2nd, 2011 04:14 am by daniel p.
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