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.

Icicles hanging from a South Hill home, melt in sun, Thursday, Feb. 21, 2019. Colin Mulvany/THE SPOKESMAN-REVIEW
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