Ice

There is something clean
about ice; frosty shaved bits
clinging to windows; the way
clean clear sheets of ice
break into shards when I hit
the water trough with my boot
heel or a hammer.
Puddles ripple paper thin
opaque crackling underfoot.
Steam rises smokey
vapor where the sun reaches
over trees to kiss black roof tiles.
It ventures inside
to our bedroom where icy
crisp sheets send chills up my bare
body.  You melt me.

Prompts: Margo has given two prompts on writing about winter.  She asks us to think or look at an image of winter and use that as a springboard.  I pictured morning chores in winter on our small ranch.  I used the choka form, given as a prompt at Poetic Bloomings.  The form is not rhymed and uses a repeating syllable count of 5-7-7-5-7-7-5.  I am also going to link this poem to dVerse’s Poetry Pub.

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