Icicles of Death and a Poem

"Icicles of death" is what I call the ice daggers that hang from our roof line.  They grow, drip, sparkle, and ultimately crash to the ground with wet thuds, not the sound of breaking glass as one might expect. 

January

by Linda Pastan

Contorted by wind,

mere armatures for ice or snow,

the trees resolve

to endure for now,

they will leaf out in April.

And I must be as patient

as the trees--

a winter resolution

I break all over again,

as the cold presses

its sharp blade

against my throat.