by Kevin T McEneaney
The pleasures of ice falling through blear air
remains much under appreciated.
While it may result in inconvenience,
ice itself is a fantastic marvel:
hanging from glazed rooftop like a dagger
dropping tiny droplets with a rhythm
not musical to the patient, trained ear.
Yet children may gape, entranced by the drip,
as if it were hypnotic mystery
performed by the Conductor of Nature.
To be charmed by the elementary
flow of all that appears to be simple
is to re-connect to the primal urge
of that lost garden before we turned ten.
