A.N. - Just me trying to wade gently back into the poetic waters that I've neglected for far too long. This is another contest poem, with the prompt of "Ice," and a strict count of 123 words.


A brittle landscape full of thinly glazed hazards
with a layer of powder like neglected spaces
doing little to quell nagging uncertainty
of landmarks disguised by shiny new faces.

Gripped cold in fear, yet awed with warm heart
such beauty in facets of nature's last breath
hanging from roofs and limbs and enthralls
and tempts the curious to prickly death.

Unyielding to all but dawn's newborn rays
shifts opaque to clear, unsure of state
dripping and pooling, seeking a quarry
to flow ever forward toward subzero fate.

Awaiting the right moment to fade or encroach
seeking the signal that a season will end.
One final biting frost to remind us at the last
that what have lost now will be ours once again.