Immune

In the space of a question…

The icicle, chill and clear,

formed quickly in just one day

off the roof’s corner.

The storm seized

the city streets

and sidewalks;

the downspout,

filled with

uncleaned leaves,

overflowed and froze.

A dagger hanging,

holding onto home,

growing longer

with each unbroken hour.

Tomorrow I predict

the late afternoon sun

will shine through

her crystal life,

she will melt

and let go,

fluid once again,

uncontained,

free to swell

like the river

from whence

she came.

Death,

false and fragile,

thus dissipates,

once a

menace,

now a

promise.

…she was gone.

Immune

a poem by Troy Cady