Friday, January 23, 2009

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. 

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.


JoAnn said...

I have a photo somewhere of my son holding an icicle that fell off of our house and it was as tall as he was...and he was over 6 feet tall then. Scary!

Margaret Ann said...

This is an awesome image...:)