The icicle waits and watches the innocent below.
To melt itself into a dagger is an art.
Tricky thaws lead to sharp paws.
It will scratch your eyes out.
If it doesn’t impale you first.
It feels like all icicles are just waiting to strike.
Probably an unfair bit of intent and baggage to saddle on such an unwitting, if armed, entity.
Winter takes its prisoners regardless of their intent.
Ridged and rippled, the ice takes its form from the wind.
Like the waves of a pond.
In the hand, it is slippery.
Of course it is cold too.
A cold that burns.
A cold that cuts.
A cold that renders the heart still.
Its beauty matched by its inherent threat, ready to pierce at a moment’s notice, when it’s absolutely necessary.
When it’s time for battle.
When it’s time for war.
When it’s time…
