Icicle

At

three

I 

see

ice

cloaked

trees

sparkling

after

the storm

I 

stand

shivering

you

standing

tall

as the trees

bow

before 

you

snap

one

off

for me

to savor

I

see

not

a crystal sword

nor

slippery

sharp

shard

I

see

only

ever

winters

sweet

and

you

smiling

down

at

me

November Poetry Project

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