ICICLE V2

    The tipping point between

    The ice and sun,

    Is hot time frozen

    In the melting air,

 

    Midnight’s sunscreen,

    Morning’s window,

    Which light has chosen

    Transparently for its show,

 

    Age’s stand

    Against the new,

    Its handstand

    Against the dew

 

    Of dripping day

    As it passes down

    Like sunlight to the ground

    In its stalactite spray:

 

    What is seen

    Is what is shed,

    A world inbetween

    Its living and its dead.