Icicles-- a poem.

Such pointless, delightful decorations,

these multi-colored glass icicles

hanging in the front window.

I study them – aglow

with the cold morning sun,
each a variation on a color theme,

purposefully hung at varying lengths –
perfect imperfection –

as real icicles are.

I admire them – as I sit

for the hundredth hour

on my living room couch, breastfeeding:

a rare, glowing positive to being up so early,

never again to sleep in.

I also hung them so passers-by

on our busy, in-town street

would see them too.

Perhaps, decorative winter baubles

make up for the lack of seeing a homey tree
through our front window, as if to say
'We still care about the holidays,'

but saving me the work

of molted pine needles on the carpet,

and wanting it gone on exactly December 26^th.

Besides, these could last us until February for sure –

icicles are in season all winter long,

even if they were originally intended as holiday ornaments...
Maybe they're not so pointless after all?

--Ellen H.