Ice

Ice, held with winter’s breath,

Glazes the tender twigs.

Insulated and yet frozen,

Dormant branches weigh loaded.

Fragrant flowers now glisten, dead.

Its shiny sheen a beauty and danger,

Covering pebbles and making them smooth.

Best to look from afar;

For meeting it can cause harm.

I gaze at the insulated branches,

Waiting for the warming of the day.

 

© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

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