Silver Filigree

The icicles wreathingOn trees in festoonSwing, swayed to our breathing:They're made of the moon.She's a pale, waxen taper;And these seem to dripTransparent as paperFrom the flame of her tip.Molten, smoking a little,Into crystal they pass;Falling, freezing, to brittleAnd delicate glass.Each a sharp−pointed flower,Each a brief stalactiteWhich hangs for an hourIn the blue cave of night.