As the temperature drops,
And the snows and rains fall,
The freezing water drips,
The icicle is born.
It could be born on your gutter,
Or maybe your car bumper,
But wherever it’s raised,
It’s still an icicle.

Slowly growing,
To add every bit of ice.
Just like every birthday it gets older,
The icicle gains weight and height,
But it’s still an icicle.

Some members of this family grow,
Tall as a stick,
Short as an elf,
Skinny as a pole,
Fat as a hippo ,
Light as a feather,
Heavy as a truck,
Or even normal,
But sometimes deformed,
But it’s still an icicle.

As the season passes,
The icicle’s age is passing as well.
But in the time,
The icicle watches and waits,
Watches nature at its fullest.
Seeing its beauty,
it cries,
Losing shape and weight,
Feeling embarrassed in front of
His icy brothers
It’s still an icicle.







Spring has approached.
The icicle is nearing death,
Shrinking in size,
Losing its weight,
And it doesn’t realize it.
The icicle has turned fragile,
A single touch could hurt it,
And yet the icicle,
Still drips and feels no pain,
But it’s still an Icicle.

Death,
The Icicle has ended his life,
In peace, melting.
Into the graveyard of a
New lively ground
But…
The question is…
Are you still an Icicle?