Winter Ice Storm
The trees are sheathed in ice,
Crystal sculptures, they stand in snow,
Bending beneath their burdens,
Flashing in the sunlight,
Reflecting the rain that created them.
Droplets are caught on the tips,
And sheath the longer branches,
Encasing them in loveliness.
Mute sculptures they stand,
Caught in winter's vise,
Bearing the cost of this beauty.
Some like the willow,
Flex their branches gracefully,
Moving through a crystal rhythm,
In a dance of flashing light.
The sun promises release.
But the cold keeps captives still.
I, too, await the change of seasons
Remembering the beauty and the price
Of the winter storm.
Florence Myslajek
New Brighton, MN
