“Here’s the longest icicle you’ve ever seen.”
“Can I touch it?”
“Yes, feel its wetness.”
The warmth of mid-winter meltdown
swells the heart with joy, optimistic slant.
Merciful respite from freezing.
Toes want to dance in mud.
Drip, drip, drip goes the song
as birds, frantic in wing, skitter
on icy mounds of melting snow.
Lungs retrieve confidence.
Yet I want to know
what a child thinks
of flux in this world
as he stomps in puddles.
But what can a child know
about flux, waterfalls of time,
those labyrinthine turns,
many-sided decisions a man must make?
Winter will soon return with cold blast
and its bone-shaking, bleaky chill.
Only wood enough for stove burning
can keep the heart warm and kind.