Member Rara Avis
The icicles will speak their peace;
preparing their soliloquies
in crystal drops of roofmelt,
the light's dance through small prisms.
The interplay of two or more
sliding past the frosted panes,
a small, simple facsimile
of the buried summer rain.
[This message has been edited by bsquirrel (08-22-2003 01:16 PM).]