In the end,
icicles dangle off the edge of the roof, regardless.
Frozen striations that point to the ground,
sharp as the tip of a thawing pen.
Winter’s just a pressure change–some warm air
to make glass knives cascade and shatter on the sidewalk
that floods the road where whiteness combusts in thuds
on a blank blanket that seeps into the greys and browns of grease and gravel,
so icebergs islands of last month’s snowfall
float in the briny lagoons of this afternoon.
This is the beginning.