Ice Monster

She hangs around hedges and

tangles in old men’s beards,

not caring what she wears;

she’ll be there to adorn the

thorns especially near dawn.


Her fickle fingers flick crystals,

never miss a chance to

dance on every protuberance.


The dalliance of her sparkle

kills off pests, and gnats plummet,

spiders sleep,

are glazed white.


She bites deep – but man just

gazes spellbound,

taking her ephemeral

beauty in at his leisure;

late at night,

and out of the

site of the censuring sun.