Something we won’t see, or Late Winter Warmth,
A Winter Libretto:
A reverse-coned icicle hangs dripping
Stalactites warm on the outside; frozen solid within.
Bringing a liquid heartbeat sound below-
Drip, beat, drip
Drip, beat, drip
Until gravity plucks this fragile form
Fleeting-
Spinning-
Crashing- it to the red brick ground.
Broken to bits, transparent
Pieces scattered about
No shape of the passing account.
Clear chemical solid cubes now.
Lying there broken
With these, no resemblance he could find to the picture in his mind
He looked to the sky to spy another sharp point growing in time.
